Nightmare
by R. Winter
Summary: As Selene struggles to deal with the truth behind her family's murder, she is forced to confront her past and the decisions that drove her to become a cold, unfeeling Death Dealer. Story deals explicitly with Selene's background. Set pre and during UW:E
1. Immortal

It wasn't vital to sleep very much as a vampire. Selene stood post, shrouded comfortably in the shadows of the safe house. It was several stories above the ground and offered one window for her to watch the humans' night activities. It made for an effective lookout.

She glanced at Michael protectively, noting that he had not yet shrugged off the human necessity of sleep. He didn't realize it was merely habit at this point, that recovering his energies purely required blood. No doubt his dreams were a welcome escape from the present.

She turned from him, not relishing the foreign emotion that threatened to overtake her every time she looked at his face. She didn't understand the feeling, nor did she care to explore it. It had been too long. The only emotions that hadn't been unitarily estranged from her were fear, hate, and anger. Especially anger.

The way things had changed so rapidly reminded her of her beginnings. Though it had been hundreds of years ago, she'd sworn her past was dead, that there was nothing left to discuss, nothing left to analyze. She had grown to indulge no thoughts concerning it. With these new revelations, however, she struggled to maintain the impervious control that made her who she was. What was she now? She'd thought she had the answer. She was a Death Dealer. She'd dealt death to hundreds, maybe thousands of innocents without a second thought. Could she possibly be anything else after that?

She balled her fists, digging the nails she had left into her palms. She twisted from the window, pacing over to the bed, kneeling beside him. She very much envied Michael. She wanted to let her fingers graze his cheek, she was sure he'd be warm. How she wished she could find comfort in sleep. She lay next to him, careful not to disturb the bed in any manner that would wake him.

It was against her better judgment. It was dangerous for her to abandon her watch so soon after Viktor's death. Maybe she wouldn't sleep, she would just relax. After the past few days, she deserved a rest, didn't she? The silhouetted shape of his lower back was her last conscious observation before drifting into sleep.

…………………………………………..

600 years earlier.

She'd spent several days on horseback. There were black, empty gaps in her memory. The sleeping gown she'd worn that night was not what she arrived in.

She was not sure how long she'd been there. It was a house of sorts, but it was bigger than anything she'd ever imagined. A sharp memory of turrets piercing a bright cloudless night came to her. It must be a castle. There were so many people, so many sounds that echoed up to her bedroom, or what they'd told her was her bedroom. She didn't share it with anyone else. It was strange not to hear the comforting breathing of her sister in an adjacent room. It was strange to think she never would again.

The bed was too big, too extravagant in its array of plush, woven colors. When she had laid on it, it felt like nothing, and she hated it. She had also extinguished the candles. The flames flickered odd shadows across the room, their unpredictable leaps scared her. They hadn't made wax often because her family had always settled into bed just before dusk. Now, it was always night, never sun. She ached to see it, longed for the warmth. But a force greater than her will shunned her from it, sent debilitating waves of terror through her at the first smell of sunrise.

She was close to the edge of madness because of the noise. After the change Lord Viktor had wrought on her, sound had bombarded her senses, blunting them to the point of paralysis. She couldn't concentrate on any one sound, whether it was the slight scuffle of a boot or someone speaking to her. For these reasons, she had taken to the supreme darkness of her mahogany wardrobe. It was bare and confined, and the wooden hollowness felt like home. With the door closed, it wasn't so loud. Thankfully, she had this last sanctuary, this last haven from sound as well as from the obtrusive, callous eyes of the others.

They spoke so differently, the language rolling off their tongues in such fluid, harmonious dialects that she scarcely understood much. Viktor put the most effort in trying to speak to her. He explained that she had a new name as one of them, that all would call her this so she was not to be confused. It was unfamiliar, of some unknown origin. This 'Selene' meant very little to her. She asked why everything was so sharp, why sound was so excruciating, when she would see her village again. She had so many questions, but he only replied, "This is your home, this is your family." She hadn't asked for another family.

Other names were whispered as the strangers stopped in front of her bedroom door, the blazing torchlight bringing sharp clarity to their lingering feet. She wasn't sure if she was meant to hear it, but they must've known she could hear everything now. She must've look like a half-wit when she entered, so disoriented by the acuteness of her senses. Maybe that's what she was now, entertainment for her condescending peers. No longer the prized possession of her carpenter father, no longer envisioning a life betrothed to the blacksmith's son. Her father had made well when she was younger; she had had a lot to offer to a new husband. No longer.

"Ők mond ő úgy néz ki mint Sonja. Semmi de egy szegény ország lány. Lesz még akkor sem kijön -ból szobája. Ez boszorkánybanda birtokol válik egy tréfa."

Selene saw that they were at her door again and quietly crept into the wardrobe, shifting herself safely into the corner. They called her what roughly translated to a poor farm or country maid, but they made it sound much worse than she thought it should sound. 'Sonja' was the other name often mentioned. A voice boomed behind the trespassers at her door, commanding them aside. It was Lord Viktor.

Lord Viktor was the only one who treated her with kindness, even if behind his soothing words there was an air about him distinctly chilling. She sensed he was fond of her, but even so his movements were completely inhuman, his expressions utterly cold.

"My Darling, you need not hide."

He spoke without the accent and alien words of the others. It was as if he'd grown up in her part of the country. He crossed the lightless room to the wardrobe, opening it. He knelt down to her, offering his hand.

"There is nothing to fear."

She slipped her palm into his, and he powerfully lifted her to out of the wardrobe. Her feet touched cold stone. Viktor relit a candle she had put out. She must've flinched because he looked at her curiously.

"I know so many things have changed in your life that it seems impossible that happiness will ever be in your grasp again."

She looked away from him. It did seem impossible.

"But you must not dismay," he said. "We are strong. We will find the villains responsible for your family."

She was hardly aware of the hot tears that burned down her cheeks. She couldn't speak through the emotion, through the visions she had of her mother, her sister, her father.

"Who?"

He paused, scrutinizing her reaction. "The Lycans. A wolf race of men. They are a scourge of this world, animals who do not know the difference between a living being and a piece of meat." His words were cool and deadly.

He dropped her hand, turning from her. She wanted to reach for it again, but he had moved too far away.

"You will understand all in due time. I came to bid you farewell. I will be gone for many months."

"No."

"I must go, my dear. I hunt these savages. I will often be gone. Such is the price of war. It is my chief My second in command, Kraven, will assist you in my absence should you require it."

Something about Kraven's assistance was utterly repugnant to Selene. Many smells on him were not his own. Though he appeared clean, Selene could smell otherwise. His scent was a sour blend of different bloods.

"You are very white," he said. It sounded more like a statement of fact than worry. "You will have to drink before I return. You cannot keep rejecting it." It was an order not a suggestion.

"What was your daughter's name?"

He looked at her coldly and did not reply. He swept from the room without another word. He left her as quickly as he'd come. She sensed that she was truly alone. She blew out the candle and recoiled back into the wardrobe.

She pressed her fingertips against her temples. What did he mean by drink? She knew, but did not want to admit it to herself. Blood. She yearned for blood, lusted for its taste. They had offered her a chalice upon her arrival. She had refused, horrified. There were several others in the room, and they had all laughed. That was when Viktor had sheparded her to her new quarters. She had instantly felt grateful to be away from their shrill, cruel laughter. He was very different than her father, but that didn't change her longing to be held by him, comforted even if only for a moment.

She pushed herself from the floor. She smoothed her hands over her skirt, easily able to separately identify every thread of its snow-white fabric. She stood at the door, still as stone. A man stood almost imperceptibly at her door. His scent was bitter and muddled. She worried Kraven would continue to do this. Though she didn't know what it meant, it gave her significant worry. He had sometimes lifted the handle to her door, but hadn't yet breached her sanctuary uninvited. This would not be that night. Noise down the hall seemed to scare him away, but it wouldn't be long until he'd try again.

It could've been minutes or hours before she was calm enough to leave her wardrobe again, images of Kraven's hungry, malevolent eyes haunting her. Despite this, she did take finally manage the small steps out. She grazed to the bed, both enchanted and confused by its bright colors. She picked over the room, charmed by the unique array of ornaments. A scent lingered that was distinctly female but decidedly not her own. She began to lose her sense of time touching the sheets, staring for great lengths of time at the stone floor, fascinated by its imperfections and by her ability to see them. She also listened the melodic rhythms of conversations that drifted up to her room undisturbed from the lounging areas, though it wasn't much use as she couldn't understand them.

She listened to something else, too. It was deep within the castle and as faint as a whisper. It spoke to her in low baritones, a ceaseless bass that continued through the night. Her curiosity was peaked most by this sound, but she couldn't find the courage to leave her bedroom, to face the others. She didn't know how long it would be until the blood craving would drive her beyond this anxiety, but it would be soon. When the noise died down, when she learned to control her senses, she hoped she could explore the castle. She would find a way to evade the undesired presence of Kraven and find the source of the sound.

…………………………………………..

Had it been days? Had it been weeks? Selene's vision would haze over and then return to a dizzying clarity. Her fingers hooked in skeleton-like talons. They were shaking and translucently pale. She was on the floor in her wardrobe, she had been sleeping. It had hit her hard, too hard. Her mind was spinning, images and memories pounding in her head, beating her down. She had to find blood, she had to get out of this room. She clawed across her floor, barely able to move, barely able to listen for the sound of others.

She threw her door open, anchoring herself against its frame for support. She thrashed down the hall, no idea where she was, no idea where she would go. Her vision blurred and could no longer see down the endless corridor. She slid down the stairs, dimly realizing she was back on the floor again. Her stomach lurched. She would've been sick if there had been anything in it. She could smell the daylight, that's why no one was around to witness the mess she'd become.

She shivered, an incurable cold had settled over her during the last few days. She slammed herself into a pair of heavy double doors. They slightly inched open. In her delirium, she briefly managed to discern where she was, heaving madly against the doors. When they finally yielded to her weak pounding, she saw books everywhere, bound in thick, heavy leathers. Books? Here in this hell? For a moment, the wonder pushed the bloodlust out of her mind, and she was able to gather a small sense of control. She staggered to the nearest case, eager to smell, to touch. She didn't know how she had survived seeing and hearing things so dully, but she would still trade it to get her family back. The weight of the book she sensitively handled gradually became heavier and heavier until it brought her to her knees, where she lost consciousness.

A part of her hoped she had died, and that she was in heaven drinking an inconceivably ambrosial drink. She took it into every fiber, wholefully renewed by every drop. She was greedy, lustful to get more. Her eyes snapped open, tracing the inside of an empty goblet.

A man knelt in front of her. She was seated against the tall spine of a bookcase. His investigative eyes regarded her, unreadable.

"You must be Selene. I would know from your looks alone."

She said nothing, her small village having naturally engraved an innate sense of distrust for strangers.

"I am Andreas Tanis, both librarian and keeper of our histories," he looked at her severely, assessing her as her father did his tools before he worked in the morning. "You're lucky it was me who found you in this most vulnerable state. I know of at least one who would have taken advantage of it."

She shakily pushed herself onto her feet. She ignored the comment. "How do you know my name?"

"You bear an unmistakable likeness to Lady Sonja," he said simply. He bowed away from her, seating himself at a table. It was obvious he had been working there, had he been there when she had come in? How had he woken her? "Many of the others have commented thus, hence I made an accurate assumption as to who you were."

He did not seem like he intended to volunteer any more than that. It was frigid in the cavernous expanse of the library, but she'd found her tolerance for cold had greatly increased since she'd drank. She wrestled with the torturous fear that she'd had blood. She didn't want to be one of the monsters her superstitious mother had told her of as a child.

Desperate to distract herself from her thoughts, she opened one of the books. She had only seen two, maybe three books in her life. She had no idea how to read. It hadn't been a top priority in her home, there had been too many chores to do. She had only known of a few vital words, none of which she saw in the book she held now.

She jumped when the man spoke again. "You are most peculiar, are you not?" He continued at her inquiring look. "Many of our new . . . initiates are eager to wear the florid dresses, to test their untiring new senses to their greatest extent. But you . . . the others say you keep yourself shut in your room, not making a sound. You finally do emerge and you're utterly crazed from bloodlust. But where do you come, where do you find refuge? Here," he said with a flourish, his hands thrown in the air.

It was strange that she could understand him. Like Viktor, he spoke in a familiar dialect not far from the one her family and friends had used. Though he still spoke discernibly foreign (the way he accented certain words, the way his voice came up at the end of sentences), she could understand it.

He returned his attentions to his work again, perhaps bored with her. She didn't want the conversation to die, he was the first person she had spoken to in . . . she didn't know how long it'd been. Her voice croaked, hoarse from neglect.

"Can you read?"

He smiled at her, but it was not uplifting in the way her sister or cousins had smiled. It bordered on both condescending and amusing.

"Of course. I must be well-versed in reading and speaking many languages if I'm to perform my work with any success."

She dismally returned the book to its dusty, forlorn spot on the shelf. What if the answer to her family's death, the answer to where she was now and why she needed blood to survive was locked away forever behind the jungle of symbols and runes before her? This man might know some of the answers to her most dire questions. Did she really want to know? Could she go on forever like this, hiding in her closet from, imprisoned by her fear of this life, this death?

"Why must I have blood?" she said quietly, a part of her hoping that maybe he wouldn't hear.

His face was again difficult to read. He didn't seem to be amused, but genuinely appeared to be surprised by the question.

"We are vámpír, Selene."

Her thoughts darkened. "Vámpír are monsters."

"Perhaps," he replied in a thoughtful, somewhat bitter tone.

"I cannot be a monster."

He licked his finger, turning a page in the yellowed manuscript he'd been leafing through. "That choice has already been made for you. You have nothing but to embrace it."

She spun from him, digging her fingers into the ancient wood, unwilling to let this well-spoken stranger see convince her of any lies.

"My family, are they vampires too?"

"Only you, Selene. Viktor chose," he paused as if he had made a misstep, "saved you."

"This is what it's like to be saved . . ."

"You have your life, Selene. And an eternal one at that. You can choose to see this as a gift or a curse. If you choose the latter, you will have done very little for your family."

"Teach me to read," she said, a sourceless passion motivating her to speak to the command. At first, he looked at her appalled, insulted by her forceful tone. But the desperation in her voice must've spoken louder.

"So be it, I haven't had a new student in over a century. I will teach you to read and write as well as I." Then, as an afterthought he added, "Not as well, but still satisfactory. Maybe the others would not think you so odd if you spent your time here instead of your room."

For the first time, she had a faint gleam of hope. Maybe she could find a way slake her thirst for blood without drinking. Maybe she could return to her village and leave this cold place and its sneering inhabitants.

"Would they come in here?" She didn't clarify, but he chuckled and she knew he'd understood.

"No. Many do not consider the pursuit of knowledge a pleasurable endeavor, and so many of us are only about pleasure. There are easier conquests for them to follow," he said this with a hint she did not understand. Seeing this, he quickly moved on. "We will start with maps. They are illustrated and will be much easier for you to understand."

He moved in the unnatural, graceful way Viktor did. He had said, 'we are vampires.' Did this mean she could move like that, too? Surely not as well. He seemed to have an incomprehensible and unfailing knowledge of the library. He moved as if he had written all of the books and could recall the precise location of each picture, each sentence.

Over the coming months, Selene spent her nights learning from Tanis. It had been the hardest to master reading and writing, but once she understood the basic fundamentals, she quickly processed new languages and dialects. She became educated in many forms of Hungarian and Romanian. Tanis was more than helpful in schooling her in their coven's history, but she found the most insatiable thirst for knowledge lay with the Lycans. She wanted to know where they were, how the war was going, what their weaknesses were. Tanis did not seem to understand this unscholarly obsession, but didn't try to control it. At her request, he had supplied her with a number of military and weapons books.

Tanis immediately warmed to his new project upon realizing what an apt and surprisingly gifted pupil she was. His teachings were exhaustive. She learned of human and animal anatomy, political and philosophical theories, of art. As the nature of her education pulsed and evolved, she began to see how naïve she'd once been, how childish, scared of the flickering flames of a candle. Through her newfound knowledge, she conquered many of her darkest misgivings for the nature of the night. She still never left the castle, but was no longer terrified of the possibility.

Though she never admitted it to Tanis, she painfully missed her home. The long hours of study, the endless manner in which information seemed to always be accessible had been the most effective, the most available tool in which to escape the uncontrollable sea of grief she had not thought about, had not worked through. It provided an excellent diversion from what she had lost. She slept as little as possible, the nightmares unbearable to wake up from.

Though time seemed suspended in the castle when she would fondly brush dust away from lengthy weapons volumes or reorganize Tanis' collection by subject and category, a quiet part of her she knew she'd been away from home for nearly ten years. She knew because she tracked Viktor's progress and movements religiously (another habit Tanis hadn't understood.) She often listened for news of Viktor, the closest she would ever get to socializing with the others. Despite Tanis' efforts, she was highly underdeveloped in the arena of social relations. She learned the etiquette and codes of respect easily, but proved helplessly unwilling to exercise them in the company of the other vampires. She preferred solitude above all else. Viktor had not seemed displeased about this, but he did highly encourage her to continue her studies with Tanis.

It was one of those days when each memory of home, each detail of each flower in the fields she played in as a child, stuck like immovable spikes in her mind. It was these days that she could not ignore her past, that she knew she would have to seek a yellowed scroll she kept hidden behind a board of one of the 11th shelf. It was very early morning and she knew she could get it without rousing the Tanis. Gliding to the 11th shelf on the right, she soundlessly took it apart until her precious possession was safely in her hands. She had discovered it in secret, though it would doubtless mean little to Tanis if he knew she had it.

She laboriously unrolled it, taking great care not to scratch or tear it, something Tanis had taught her to do with all old materials. She laid it out and stared at it for several countless minutes. Her eyes followed the embroidered streams, the tirelessly detailed mountains and trees. She drank in each minute detail with the greatest contentment. She eagerly scanned over the wood surrounding what she knew to be where her home had stood. She knew it so well after all these years that she didn't doubt she could navigate the terrain with her eyes closed.

Amidst the wonder and love for the map's beautiful portrayal of her childhood countryside, her long hours of gazing at it had tapped a new emotion. Though it merely lingered, she knew it was more powerful than the fear and grief that had dictated so much of her immortal life (Tanis assured her she _was_ immortal.) The emotion was slow-burning and mutated her anguish into something hot, something dangerous. The feeling rose now, constricting her breadth, making it hard for her to focus. Why they had chosen her village, her house to destroy? Where a quiet appreciation had once been, there was now a hateful fury that ate away at her every time she looked at it.

Though she had learned much, nothing had helped her deal with this feverish, unabating rage. She needed something that Tanis could not offer. She sat, bewildered by the predicament. It was in this quiet deliberation that she heard something she had not heard in several years. A muted reverberation spoke inaudibly to her. How had she forgotten? She returned the map and swept out of the library.

She skimmed along the edge of the hallways, unenthused about running into anyone. Who would be up at this hour? The sun had not yet set. She followed the sound, her step quickening as it grew into a steady crescendo. She chased it deep into the castle, down winding passages, through ancient stone doorways. Finally, she found herself at the opening to several corridors. There were no torches. A mortal could not have found their way. She chose at random, following her instinct, and continued down the path. After a few minutes, she reached what appeared to be an opening.

It was a balcony. She crossed the stone railing and looked down. There was an endless line of warriors moving in practiced, perfectly timed battle movements, training. They did so to the beat of a booming drum.

A man grabbed her arm, literally having appeared out of thin air. She choked down a scream. He hissed something at her. It was in one of the languages she had just begun studying. The lack of understanding must've registered on her face because he thought a moment before repeating in Hungarian.

"This part of the castle is off limits. Even to beauties such as yourself."

He was so big, she felt dwarfed in comparison. His arms were heavily muscled, but he still managed to hold himself gracefully. His eyes were confident. She watched them pour over her face, a slow annoyance materializing in his expression.

"I'm sorry," she said, turning to leave. He said nothing in return.


	2. From A Shell

Michael roused around midnight. Though he was still shell-shocked from his experiences, he at least seemed to know when not to bother her with mundane questions. She sat at the metal table, meticulously counting her remaining rounds. The safe house seemed to be low on supplies and didn't have much she truly needed, including a full stock of ammunition and blood.

Michael stood from the bed, stretching. In her periphery, she saw him go completely still. Something about the way he stood disturbed her concentration.

"What is it?"

"I smell . . . vampires."

Selene sniffed the air, assuming he was wrong. He couldn't have mastered his sense of smell already. It hadn't even been a day. She was wrong.

She calmly moved out of her chair, raking the bullets and blood pouches off the edge table into her duffel bag. Michael just stood there. "Pack your things," she said. He looked at her curiously. "_Now._"

Finally, he did as she said. They wouldn't last long if he continually waited for an explanation behind her orders. Either way, it was only another ten seconds before they were ready. Selene holstered one of the Berettas, tightening her grip around the other. She offered another automatic to Michael. He didn't move to accept, looking at her uncomfortably. She shrugged, putting it into the bag. He was likely more dangerous with it, anyway, assuming he'd probably never used a gun in his life.

She should've known they'd be tracked this quickly. Michael smelled so detestably of Lycan, the scent probably carried for miles outdoors, easily recognizable to any trained Death Dealer. It didn't surprise her that those left behind at the mansion had already taken action.

"You're not going to like this, but we should split up. We don't know where they are or what they're planning. I smell at least three."

She stopped just beside the elevator. There was another stairwell at the end of the hall.

"How can you tell there's three? Scent just smells strong to me."

She didn't answer. She didn't want to tell him she not only knew how many there were, but what they looked like, their names, where'd they'd come from. Their numbers had diminished in recent years, making it easier for her to better know her comrades. Even if they had managed to successfully turn a mortal, many new vampires weren't interested in fighting in an ancient feud that meant little to their modernized lives. It would be lamentable to kill them, but she would without a second thought.

"I'm—" she paused, looking at him. She hadn't expected him to transition so quickly into his hybrid form. It was somewhat disconcerting looking into his coal black eyes. "I'm going to get the car. Go down the elevator shaft and meet me in the garage. The split up should confuse them long enough for us to figure out where they are. In the event all three try to take one us out, let's hope they're stupid enough to go for you. They may want me alive."

That was unlikely, but she worried Michael wouldn't comply if he thought she might get hurt. She turned away from him, the adrenaline already pulsing through her veins, driving her to plunge into the fray. Michael caught her by the arm.

She regarded him coolly. "Michael." It was a stern warning.

His face looked pained. The coldness in her voice must've swayed him from saying anything to stop her. He let her go after a few seconds, leaving her with great reluctance. Would his extreme unwillingness to be separated become a problem? 

She heard the disquieting sound of tearing metal behind her as she shoved into the stairwell. She propelled down the steps several at a time. Frustrated still with the slowness, she dropped over the railing, fell several stories, and hit the ground with an imperceptible thud.

Someone was pacing just outside the garage door. It was Anthony, a new recruit. She would feel the least guilty killing him. He paced in front of the door. Timing it, she savagely slammed her boot into the door, the loud crack of metal breaking bone resounding her success. She focused on two things: the sharp bark from the higher ranking Peter, and the shuffle of his and his remaining two death dealers' feet moving into position. The definite fact here was that all three were going to focus fire on her. It certainly wasn't the first time.

She shot Anthony several times in the chest. Satisfied he was dead, she used the metal door as cover. She was still in an extremely vulnerable position. Trying to work out a plan, she processed too late that they were using powerful automatic rifles. As the shells tore through the door, she dropped to the floor, slipping slightly in . . Anthony's blood? Above the deafening screech of fire, she heard something much more alarming. Michael's roar was immediately followed by a scream.

Selene surged toward the black SUV. She could make it. It would provide better cover than the door. She dashed across the garage, slamming into the car driver's door. She tried to open the door, normally a straightforward action. It was complicated by the sudden intensity of severe pain. She looked down. One, maybe two of the automatic rifle rounds, had torn her side open.

She was scared. It throbbed as she moved into the driver's seat. There was a pool of blood around her thighs, it dripped onto the floor much faster than it should. Her hands were shaking as she tried to hold her keys. Her almost immediate loss of motor skills was bad news.

She could see Michael engaged in savage hand-to-hand combat with Peter. She could use the car to help him. She jabbed the key at the ignition slot several times, more frantic with each miss. He needed her now. She couldn't let him die. She continued to slam the key, each attempt successively weaker. They fell from her hand, clattering hopelessly at her feet as she slumped against the steering wheel.

………………………………………………..

Selene sat tediously indexing new volumes in the library. Tanis busied himself with his mysterious collection of tomes she was not allowed to see. She'd always assumed these were his personal logs.

"Tanis?"

He responded with a grumble that meant she could continue. She cursed herself for being unable to ask the question she really wanted to know.

"Where do we get our blood from?" An easy answer, she hated to seem stupid in front of him, but obviously she didn't have the courage yet.

He turned to her, a wry expression on his face. For a moment, it looked as if he knew the question was just a stalling tactic. "It's a wonder after the years you've been here, you still haven't left the confines of the castle."

She stared at him. She hated the way he often chose to mock her simple background if an answer seemed very obvious to him. Truthfully, she had ventured outside the castle often to watch the warriors.

He sighed. "As I'm sure you know, it is forbidden to feed off mortals. We don't want anyone becoming suspicious. We exact a tax from our human fiefdom that requires payment of a portion of their livestock. Your family no doubt contributed."

She winced at the casual way in which he referenced her family. It was something she avoided speaking of in most circumstances. She wondered what human blood would taste like. Disgusted, she pushed the thought from her mind.

"What farmer would come at night?"

"They're typically too afraid to pass the animals off to anyone. Many times they just leave them at our gates during the day."

She returned to work, annoyed with herself. She could sense Tanis looking at her but did not want to meet his gaze. It was very difficult to hide anything from him. He had told her that her face often betrayed what she was thinking. She hoped one day she would be able to control her emotions as tightly as Viktor.

Tanis dropped a heavy, leather bound text onto the scroll she was writing on.

"Don't forget this one. I found it lying out last night."

She read the title. Her breathing came a little less easy.

"The Immortal Elite." She opened the book, idly flipping through the pages. "I must've left it out earlier. Who are they?" She inwardly cringed. She doubted this act would fool him.

Tanis regarded her with a cool expression. She couldn't tell if it was amusement or anger. Though there was a hint of a smile, she knew not to be fooled by this.

"You've been my apprentice for close to fifty years. Do you really think I don't know what you're up to, even if you don't tell me?"

Selene had never done anything that required reproach in her life. While Tanis had instructed her, often having to correct her many mistakes, this was the first time she felt shamed.

"I know every question you'll ask, every book you'll look at, and every person you'll think about. You wear it all so clearly on your face, even had we not worked together, I'd know. I'll admit it, though. Given your nature, I was a bit surprised by your request to Viktor."

Selene pulled her hands apart, having been unconscious to the fact that she was clasping them so hard they were ivory white.

"He approved it today."

Tanis stood very still. A semi-sardonic smile always graced his face, ready to mock anyone who knew him, ready to give the constant impression that they were the subject of all his inner jokes. It was gone now. Its absence bothered Selene.

"It's been some time since we discussed philosophy. Perhaps now?"

Selene involuntarily sneered, slamming the book shut. He would not tell her what to do this time, tell her how to feel. Why did he deserve to hear her reasons? She stood, turning away from him.

"What exactly do you think you'll accomplish, killing them? You'll never find the one responsible for your family."

"What do you know?" she spat, twisting to glare at him.

"I know that you know next to nothing about this war, that your involvement would be entirely personal."

"Is that not what wars are fought over if not things that are personal?"

Tanis rounded the table. There were no obstacles between them now. She couldn't read his expression, the intensity of his emotions making this impossible. The anger there was too ingrained to purely be about her new development.

"I would think that if I've taught you nothing else, I've taught you to value life."

"_They_ do not value life. They are beasts that know little control beyond their own animalistic instincts. They deserve extinction."

She had never spoken this passionately about anything in her life. She had never voiced this rage over the years, never hinted at it in any of their conversations. Tanis was equally taken aback the sudden hatred in her voice. His face turned cold, as if he had heard these words already. He didn't say anything to her. This somehow made it feel more important to make him see it her way.

"They are monsters."

"WE are monsters!" He yelled this, the sound reverberating viciously in the tomb-like library. "What makes you any different than them? We drink blood, we stalk the night for victims, Selene. If you cannot understand that, you will be a killer just like _them_."

She could not counter this argument. She stepped away from him, uncomfortable with the acuteness of their closeness, the fierceness of their debate.

"Viktor has already decreed I'm to start training tonight. He said it will avenge my family. I will have justice."

Tanis face contorted, the first glimpse of what Selene knew to be severe bitterness, deep-seated loathing. "Viktor has never made a decision that wasn't entirely selfish. Do not think anything he does, he does for you."

"He is your master. You should speak better of him."

"You are so young," he said with such utter disdain. "I thought I'd made real progress with you .. and you're still the same, just a simple, close-minded country girl."

She wanted to turn and run. She wanted to cry. His disappointment stung like poison, but she couldn't remove her eyes from his. Suddenly, she had something to prove to him, something to prove to everyone.

"I am an Elite now. You will be treating me as such from now on."

"They will never respect you."

"Because I am a country girl?" she snapped.

"No, because you are a child.

She left the library with as much grace and dignity that she could muster, but the façade soon failed in her bedroom. She hated herself for crying, but she could not stop until sunrise.

………………………………………………..

She could taste blood in her mouth. The stone smelled of it, too. Under that she could detect a dozen other scents, those whose blood had been similarly spilled, but she could see nothing. She knew that scent would always be there, no matter how many times they might clean it. Now, hers was too.

"Get up, gyermek. You'll not disgrace all of us with your weakness."

Involuntary tears burned down her cheeks now hot with surprise and pain. The man was tall and thin, but the blow had been impossibly strong. His eyes were hard, almost cruel, and if she could tell nothing else from his expression, she knew he absolutely detested her presence. It was this look that made her get up, but only because it reminded her of how Tanis had looked at her the night before. And that made her angry.

She stared back at him, directly into his coal black eyes. He looked her over a few seconds longer, the intensity of his scrutiny making her somehow more uncomfortable than when she'd been on the floor.

"This is most unfortunate. We all thought you'd quit after one hit. Let's hope Viktor saw something more in you than what I see."

He walked away down the long corridor to the training area, too fast for his words to fully sink in or for her to decide whether or not to follow.

"Don't just stand there like a cow," he barked, his tone as sharp as glass. "You will follow me. You will not speak or look at anyone. It is enough that you are a woman, we don't need to suffer your meaningless opinions as well."

She was so struck by his contempt that she couldn't fathom a reply, only trail him at a near run. Tanis had always spoken to her with finesse and respect, this transition was very jarring.

His strides were long and unhurried, but he moved quickly, seamlessly through the hallways. They passed a series of several wooden doors until they came to an end.

"We'd been using this room as a supply closet, mainly to store used weapons and dead rats."

He threw open the door, the wood cracking against the stone wall. The stench was intolerable. She was overwhelmed by it. It was pitch black, so she couldn't see them, but she knew that the 'used weapons' were encrusted in blood.

"These are your new quarters. You will sleep here, not in that exalted room you're used to. You really want to be a soldier, you won't be in the barracks until I say."

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the room was hardly big enough to lie down in and certainly not big enough for anything else.

"Your first task as an Elite is to clean this room and every other in this hall. Give me one reason to go to Viktor and tell him you disobeyed."

With one last hateful glare, he was gone. Selene didn't quite realize she'd been crying until after she'd already found a bucket and set to work. She reminded herself that this was for her family, over and over until the words made no sense. But she still couldn't see her father understanding the way she'd just been treated was for him.

………………………………………………..

His name was Devereaux. He was the commanding officer of her division, and he was from France but spoke Hungarian like a native. Some of his words rang foreign, but it was rare for her to hear it.

No one spoke to her for the first several months. He'd assigned her a variety of tasks, each of them maddening in their banality. They also served the dual purpose of keeping her as far away from actual training as possible. The new recruits she saw from the shadows were always assigned to the barracks when they arrived. Over time, she'd become enraged by Devereaux's selective mistreatment.

She watched him often through the guise of doing some mundane task. He was a skilled warrior and got along well with his men. He treated them so differently. He was bright and charismatic, patting them on the back and often engaging in friendly banter, a side she never saw. His face, so frequently twisted in disdain for her, was pleasant, even attractive with them.

The cleaning had given her an intimate knowledge of the castle. She knew where the weapons were kept, how they were cleaned, how they were made. She'd also learned how to travel invisibly. After being viciously lashed by Devereaux, she'd made it her top priority to not be seen if it meant avoiding more public embarrassment.

It had begun to really get to her. She knew the others didn't see her as an equal, maybe even laughed about her when she wasn't there. Thankfully, she'd even met someone who was in a similar situation to her, an African named Kahn. For him, it was the color of his skin, which she only found fascinating. He worked as a blacksmith but was not allowed to train. They recognized an immediate kinship within each other upon meeting. They devised a way that they could advance their skills before the day was done.

Together they worked with the weapons in the daylight hours, when all the others were taking sleep shifts. He had had more training than her but not much. She had learned a greater control over her senses and considered herself to be better than Kahn. However, his strengths clearly lay in his knowledge of weapons and strategy, while hers in implementing what he knew.

"We've been doing swords for the past several weeks. Do you want to switch to something different?"

She had been practicing with the heaviest sword she could find. She breathed raggedly, putting down the weapon. Her arm ached. It felt like a dead weight. "No, the majority of their training seems to be swords."

"What about hand-to-hand?" She shot him a severe look.

"No."

She hated the thought of being struck after the first time Devereaux had hit her in the corridor.

It was strange. She hated him every second of every day, but she was still too afraid to speak out against what she knew was mistreatment. She knew he would be punished by Viktor, but a part of her couldn't help but wonder if he was right. Did she belong here? Was she a coward? Could he really hurt her if she challenged his authority?

As if sensing her thought process, Kahn said, "We've come far, Selene. But it's not going to be good enough for him if we don't start branching out."

"It doesn't matter!" she said, picking up her sword and spinning, decapitating the attack dummy. "It doesn't matter how good I am, I'll never get a chance. Not while he's still around."

"You know, I've seen him watching you sometimes."

"Probably planning betters ways to waste my time."

"I don't know.." he said, but didn't finish the thought.

She began beating the dummy viciously.

"Look, I think we need to take a break."

"We don't have time for that."

As she swung back, he caught her wrist, not allowing her to move. "Yes, we do. I have an idea."

She moved to swing anyway, but he slapped her forearm with the back of his hand. Pain shot up her shoulder and she yelped, dropping the sword. "See? You're going to hurt yourself if you keeping pushing your body this hard."

Begrudgingly, she followed him. He looped through the stone corridors, but it wasn't long before she realized he was leading her out of the castle.

"We're leaving the castle?"

"Yes, I want to show you something."

She was bothered by this. While she had certainly _left_ the castle, she had never ventured far from its turrets. She didn't want to admit that a part of her was scared that the world still existed without her. Even after all these years, there was still that hope that this was just some alternate world where her family died, a dream she could still wake up from.

But that's what Kahn was doing, leading her farther away from her home. She glanced back, looking through the tangled canopy of trees for any signs of the castle, but it was gone. She inadvertently stuck closer to Kahn. They crept through the forest, not making a single noise, avoiding leaves and fallen branches. A light snow glimmered in the moonlight over the forest floor. She stopped. She could hear something else.

She started to ask but then she knew. It was the sound of laughter. Kahn held up his hand as they approached a clearing and ducked down, hiding himself deeper in the shadows.

"What is this?" she whispered.

He looked at her smiling. "The closest village is celebrating the new year tonight. I thought maybe you'd be the only one to appreciate this, being Tannis' understudy and all."

She didn't even have time to feel pained by the mention of Tannis, she was so captivated in what she was seeing. She watched the villagers, dozens of them, mingle around the giant flickering flames of a huge bon fire. They licked at the black sky. They drank from large wooden cups and danced, arm in arm, with each other. They seemed happy, despite the cold.

"Do you know what they're saying?"

But she didn't hear him at first. The picture in front of her was disturbing some long forgotten emotion.

"Uh—" she said distractedly. She was about to say no, of course she couldn't understand them when she realized slowly that she could. They were speaking a strange Hungarian dialect, but it was so similar to the that of her village's that she knew.

"They're talking about the fire. Saying they've never seen one so high."

Kahn seemed absolutely dazzled. "Where I'm from, we'd never built fires like this."

For a second, she thought it had begun snowing, her face was wet. She looked up to see nothing falling through the air.

"This was beautiful, Kahn. Thank you for showing me," she said, plummeting back into the forest from which they came. She would not be weak. The sounds of the villagers haunted her all the way back to the castle.

Kahn didn't bring up the incident again, but did ask Selene several questions about hungarian tradition, which she was happy to answer. She was happy to think about anything but what she had felt in the forest.

They were up several more days straight, eluding the guards and practicing. Their secret training so thoroughly exhausted her that she'd been sloppy in her cleaning of the barracks. She couldn't remember though, her mind had been so muddled at the time. She'd been on her way to check pail in hand when Devereaux materialized behind her, as if he'd been waiting all these months for precisely this mistake.

"You missed three beds last night."

She stopped, turning to him, regarding him as her commanding officer but not looking him in the eye.

"I was on my way to get them now."

"I have reported your lack of discipline to Viktor. He does not suffer undedicated followers."

Her eyes snapped up to his. "What?"

"He has asked to see you in the courtyard. Finally, he will prove to the coven what we've been saying all along: that you don't deserve to be here."

He turned, his leather boots squeaking, leaving Selene with her fury. She threw the pail down and started running, gathered her dignity, and walked the rest of the way to the courtyard, not caring that she was not longer invisible. There, several men were sparring with swords, the metal dancing in the moonlight. Many others were observing, including Viktor.

The cold air hit her face in a blast when she stepped out, but she couldn't feel it. His back was to her as he watched the session, but she knew what his face would look like; calculating and dispassionate. She waited a moment, not sure how to approach him. But the wind turned, bringing her scent to him.

"My dear," he said turning. "I was disappointed to here of your dishonor."

"Yes, my Lord," she responded, her words shaking with anger. The men had stopped fighting. They were watching. Devereaux was behind her again, apparently a master of sneaking up like a snake. Viktor glanced at him, and he stepped forward.

"She has been schooled in the practice of dueling?"

"Yes, sir, just like the other recruits."

Selene glared straight venom at him.

"We will then continue in a manner that is tradition here. When your loyalty is called into question, you must duel the challenger in the fashion of your choosing to regain your honor. First blood spilled loses. The punishment for losing is three lashings a day for four weeks."

He looked at her. She wanted to find pity in his eyes, a trace of the bond she thought they shared, but they were empty. "Selene?"

She was shaking, but she hoped the others thought it was from the cold. "Swords, sire."

Devereaux laughed when she said this, a sound most unwelcome to her ears.

"Clear the ring. Devereaux and Selene step in when ready."

She went to the weapons closet, a few meters off from the arena, but found nothing satisfactory there. Nothing that she could beat Devereaux with. Her eyes unconsciously stung with tears as she imagined her inevitable defeat at the hands of her arrogant captain.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She brushed the tears away with her forearm, turning, trying to look as hardened and untouched as the stone that surrounded them. "What?"

It was Kahn. She was so happy to see him, an ally in the midst of enemies, that she nearly started crying again.

"I heard what Devereaux did. I couldn't get out of work until now, but I brought you something."

He was carrying a long object he'd wrapped carefully in blue cloth. She took it, smiling softly, and unraveled her present.

"I know your birthday is next week, but I figured you could use it now."

It was a sword, and it was perfect, a masterpiece from an expert craftsmen. She could see it had been carefully and beautifully edged with silver, the lines arcing and curling as if this was not an instrument of death, but a piece of art. It was lighter than any other sword they'd practiced with but hardly less sturdy.

"Kahn, you've come at the best time. I don't know how I can thank you."

He smiled before turning to survey the arena where Devereaux waited, laughing with his friends.

"Just beat him for me. I know I'll be eventually respected as a warrior, but you .. if you don't beat him now, you'll never get another chance to avenge your family."

She nodded, gripping the sword by the hilt, ready to start the duel.

"Don't forget to listen. Tune everything out but him."

Kahn knew she'd had particular difficulty controlling her sense of sound. She focused now, more than ever, on honing it, listening to Devereaux's breathing, his movements, and his heartbeat.

She stepped into the ring, a discernible hush falling over the crowd. It began to snow, lightly misting her hair with flakes. Thankfully, she'd had the sense to pull it back before leaving for work. Devereaux turned his predatory eyes on her, the hues now bright blue, luminescent in the night.

It was something about looking at his face that propelled a change in her, her mahogany brown now ice blue. The hatred she felt was consuming. All of the years she'd spent feeling less than human, less than everyone else, all the days spent being subservient to others, all the times people had looked at her like filth, like a child, the entirety of her immortal life at this emotionless, impersonal place, became this one moment, became Devereaux standing there with his misplaced prejudice.

She advanced on him, throwing everything she had at him, every technique she'd learned, every trick she knew. He was taken aback at first by her passion, by her frenzy. It put him immediately on the defensive. He parried and blocked each brutal slashing, having no time to do anything else.

Her senses were acute. She could hear the snow crunching, his breath quickening. It gave her a premonition-like sense that she knew what was coming next, all of these clues falling into place to tell her what would happen next. It was only when her blade didn't make contact with his blade that she knew something was wrong. He caught her in the back with his elbow, and she heard his sword cut through the air. There was a tear.

She was on the ground.

"Check her for blood."

She stood, not allowing the others to touch her, checking herself with a terror more distinct than any she'd ever felt. Her dress was torn. She pulled back the fabric to reveal no blood, no cut. He had narrowly missed her. She couldn't help breathe with relief, she'd been holding it in for a long time.

He saw this, a blind rage filling his normally aloof eyes. He lunged at her, sword aimed ready to skewer her like a fish. She spun, and he barreled past her, off balance. She swung her sword in a half moon, and it sliced through the leather suit, carving a giant gash on his back from tail bone to neck.

He fell, but he didn't cry out. She wanted to see his expression, she wanted to relish every moment of his pain.

"Selene, return to your barracks. Devereaux, I advise you exercise more caution in the future when it comes to who you challenge."

Selene looked at Viktor and finally saw a twinkle of pride. She knew then that not only would she do anything for Viktor, that she would succeed. From the shell she'd become after her family's death there would emerge a fierce, merciless warrior.


	3. Craving

**Author's Note:** I want to deviate from canon a little by saying that if a Lycan bites a vampire, they don't die from the two viruses mixing. It seems strange that Vampires would immediately die from one bite no matter how small, especially given that would be a Lycan's main weapon. Therefore, I'm going to say that only a newly bitten Lycan or Vampire would die from a bite from the other species. Obviously a bite could kill them for other reasons (bleeding, infection, etc.) Thanks!

………………………………………………..

Michael was shaking her. She was on the concrete, and it was cold. She touched a hand to her side, feeling the blood ooze, slippery, between her fingers. It was a bad sign that she was still bleeding. Though she was lucky they hadn't been UV rounds, a bullet had either pierced an organ or an artery. Michael was splattered in blood, too, but thankfully she could smell that not much of it was his own. Some was their attackers, some of it hers. It was everywhere.

"Stay awake, I'm trying to stop the bleeding." He cradled her in a position that had she been even mildly lucid, she would've quickly pushed out of. In many ways, she feared her reaction to his touch more than the touch itself.

"Michael—"

"Don't talk," he said. He struggled to make some type of tourniquet. What on earth did he think he was going to do? It was too serious.

"Blood, Michael," she said, but her voice was hoarse and strained.

It took him a split second to understand. She could smell his fear. He retrieved her bag from the car, urgently scrambling through it. She was vaguely irritated that he hadn't offered his wrist. He ripped through the plastic and shoved a pouch to her lips. She drank deeply, keeping her eyes on his, struggling to keep the image of his face clear. Curly brown hair, full lips…it faded into a consummate, murky black.

A thought, an image slipped out of her mind, a bad one. She struggled to hold it, to keep it with her, but it was fading, slipping through her fingers like a mirage.

"Non," she said, running after it down a long, dark tunnel. But her eyes were opening, and it was gone.

Michael's blurred face slowly cleared as she opened her eyes. She found herself focusing on a spot just below his ear.

Feeling less muddled, she drew herself away from him. Still beyond weak, she wasn't able to get as far away as she wanted. She swayed as she lifted herself to her feet.

"You said a name while when you were coming around."

She ignored him. "We need to leave. Someone must've heard the gunfire."

He held out a hand to help her up. She accepted it reluctantly. "Don't you think we need to stop? You're seriously wounded."

"I'll be fine. We'll stop when we're safe."

He looked at her as if she might be insane. He didn't understand. "At least let me drive."

Though he backed down from her glare, she slid into the passenger seat anyway, trying with great difficulty not to wince from the pain in her side. She lifted her hand, looking at it. It was covered in blood. They both were.

"Devereux. That's the name you said. That and a few another things in French."

Selene folded her arms, clenching her jaw, hoping if she maintained her resolute silence he would stop asking questions. He shifted the car into gear, and they were finally moving, finally getting away from yet another place she'd nearly died.

"You said, 'Nous sommes des mort.'"

She sighed, reigning in her fast growing agitation. It wouldn't help to be curt and rude to Michael. They were all they had, at least for now.

"What does it mean?" he continued, unperturbed by her avoidance.

It had been so long, but the words still had a strong emotional resonance.

"It means, 'We are death.'"

………………………………………………..

The blow hit her in the chest, so hard she couldn't breathe. She rolled back in the snow, her grip having momentarily loosened over the hilt of her sword. She could hear her opponents' blade sing through the air. She rolled right. Crunch, his blade was in the snow. She reached out, had his wrist in her hand, and slammed her elbow into his face. Another crunch, she'd broken his nose. The blood sprayed onto her clothing.

She backed off. Snow flurried and settled around them like unsettled baking flour. It was soft on her face. She definitely had the advantage now. He would hardly be able to see with all the blood in his eyes. She hooked her arm out, rending the man's back open in a deep, half-moon gash. She circled and moved to strike again.

"Enough," a voice said, and she stopped, her arm frozen mid-swing. "Damien, retire to the barracks and clean your wounds. Think more carefully when you measure your opponent's strength next time."

Selene turned to the voice, lowering her blade to her side, the silver embroidery glinting white-hot against the snow. The other man, Damien, picked himself off of the ground, scurrying away from Selene as fast as his legs could carry him. She watched him leave, passively amused.

"They come as quickly as they leave."

"Maybe in time you won't have to defend your honor so regularly," Devereaux said. Selene watched the retreating form thoughtfully. "Though I'll admit watching these sessions is quickly becoming a favorite pastime."

He flashed a smile at her, a brief glimpse of white teeth. She couldn't help but respond with her own, however faint it might be.

"It's more direct than fighting slander and lies if nothing else."

She doubted Devereaux could ever understand how much she appreciated life as one of Viktor's soldiers. The rules were simple and everyone followed them. She didn't mind having to cut up a few new recruits if it meant life-long loyalty. Not like the others, the wordlessly beautiful socialites that had spat insults and laughed at her when she'd first arrived. They would accept a favor and return it only by stabbing her in the back.

"Still not getting along with Kraven?" 

She looked at him irritably.

"It can be dangerous not to play by the politics of this castle," he said, but his smile had only widened.

She sheathed her weapon sharply. "Like it's hard to be a self-serving, whimpering cow."

"I would love to see you teach them in the style I've become accustomed to watching."

"Don't tempt me."

Kraven had been making it public knowledge he would be Selene's escort to any social event in the coven. He had made a show of sending her giant, elaborate dresses. "I will die before I wear one of those dresses. They serve better as kindling."

He continued to smile. It was a pleasant thing, something she enjoyed watching. She was not sure why someone like Kraven had taken so much interest in her. She worried about the consequences of her silent refusals. She wasn't sure to what lengths he would go. She realized she'd been smiling into Devereaux's magnetic eyes for too long now. This was another one of _those_ moments. She looked away.

Devereaux was watching her face, and his thoughts seemed to turn with hers as they climbed through the snow back to the castle.

"Your particular problem may be solved shortly anyway. Viktor plans to attack the lycan stronghold. It will likely be the last stand for their mutt race. I don't think Viktor's right hand will be able to weasel out of a battle this important."

A battle? The last? Viktor bring Kraven?

"Does he even know how to lead?"

"He must've done something to achieve Viktor's trust. Viktor wouldn't be foolish enough to put someone incompetent in charge," he said, but Selene didn't think he sounded so sure.

As they walked a few moments in silence, a thought occurred to Selene.

"How many are going?"

"Many of our number."

"Will I be going?"

As he weighed the question, her emotions spiked. She was excited at the prospect though equally frightened. She had no field experience, hadn't killed a lycan yet despite the fact she'd already been training rigorously for close to two years. At first, she had thought it was because Devereaux was once again impeding her progress but learned it was quite the opposite. Every other warrior refused to be on a team with a woman. After the sensationalism surrounding her triumph over Devereaux had died down, the men were no longer too afraid to mistreat her, often in the form of refusing to train with her.

After it got to the point no would work with her, Devereaux had decreed that anyone who felt she shouldn't be there was more than welcome to challenge her to a duel.

"_And after she sends you crying to your friends, if you still feel like she doesn't belong, you can take it up with Viktor, who placed her here himself."_

It had been unrelentingly tiring as she fought sometimes two and three soldiers a day for her respect. The fights had been difficult, but nothing compared to Devereaux. Devereaux's plan seemed to work. As she defeated warrior after warrior, she began to be treated with respect. Though still not an equal.

Now, many had learned not to try, wise enough to abide by her reputation. But there was always an arrogant newcomer like Damien that thought they might impress their superiors.

"No. There are orders from Viktor that state that you are to be explicitly detained."

_What?_ After all this time, did Viktor now question her ability?

Sensing her anger, Devereaux added, "Oh, don't light up like that. Many will not be coming back from this battle. He presumably wants to protect you."

"I don't want special treatment."

"What can you expect? You're the only female death dealer. As much as you might wish, you're never going to be treated the same as the rest of us."

She looked at him mutinously.

"Look around, Selene," he said throwing his arms up in the air, a few snow flakes falling gingerly onto his leather gloves. "No one else has been hand-picked and placed here by Viktor. You should accept your fate."

She turned from him, back towards the castle. As he followed her, she considered Devereaux, how their dangerous rivalry had dissolved the day she'd beaten him. He was friendly now, the façade she'd seen when he was with his men before. But it was different, too. She knew he was one of the few she could rely on if she were in danger. She also couldn't help but notice that not wearing an unchanging expression of hatred considerably improved his attractiveness. Particularly when he was looking at her.

"Are you going?" she said over her shoulders, catching his dark brown eyes briefly.

He looked perplexed, even angry. "I don't think so. Kraven will likely take my place."

Selene looked affronted, unbelieving. "Take your place?"

An interested smile played across his face, as if he'd uncovered something mysterious. "You say it as if you don't think it's possible."

She realized that he was watching her response to this statement closely, assessing how close this was to the truth. More interesting was that he was trying to mask his own attentiveness with that normal charm, that laughing, joking leader everyone knew him to be. He may be spot on when it came to knowing her, but it gave her a small satisfaction that she knew him, too. The men were inspired by him, they wanted to be him. Kraven could not possibly compare.

"No, I don't think it's possible."

Her face, the face that couldn't hide anything, must've betrayed this sentiment more elaborately than her simple response because his expression changed from playfully teasing. He watched her with an instensity that was unsettling, his eyes tinged with blue. It looked like craving. He became aware of his own reaction, instantly masking it and removing his eyes from hers.

"It is not my place to decide," he said, adding nothing more.

She looked up, realizing that had already stopped under the giant, stone archway that marked the spot of most of their partings. Selene was unhappy to separate so soon, it was rare that she got to speak with Devereaux alone. She enjoyed their banter because they played off of each other well. He was charismatic and amiable where she was reserved and somber. He could get her to relax when no one could. He also seemed to think a lot about what he said and did around her, and she liked that. He only acted this way when they were alone which lead her to think more about it.

There was something between them that was undefined and potentially complicated. He was a physical presence with his division, often clapping them on the back or surprising them with a brotherly blow to the shoulder or stomach. But they never touched, no matter how well they carried along. She wasn't sure if this bothered her, or made her feel relieved.

"Well, we will be seeing more of each other after they move out," he said, but his face was guarded, as if he didn't seem to know how to feel about this. Another one of those moments.

She nodded to him to express her farewell. He moved as if he might take her hand, but didn't, merely turning and he walking away.

………………………………………………..

"There's something I need to teach you that will likely come up the first time you're out."

They were indoors. It was blizzarding, and there were too few left in the barracks and training grounds to make it worth going outside. Selene stood at the end of a long shooting range, nocking an arrow to her bow. She pulled back, fighting the resistance of the string.

"What is it?"

She loosed the arrow. To her dismay, it struck several yards away off center. She reached for another arrow, eager not to miss many more with Devereaux instructing her. And watching her.

"You've felt it before. I've seen it. You've seen it, too, a number of times on their faces." She knew what he meant. His tone of derision meant one of the many recruits that challenged her. "Mine included."

"The eyes," she responded without really listening. She thought about the color, a piercing dagger blue that surfaced many times when she dueled. Another thump. Again off center.

"Yes, that's part of it. There's a name for it, though. Blood rage." He lifted a heavy practice sword, slashing the air a few times behind her, getting a feel for the weight. She could feel the air hit the back of her neck. "If you can control it, it's your greatest weapon. If not, you'll be blinded by your hatred and rage. Reckless. An easy target."

She notched another arrow, her annoyance mounting. He must know about her family, must assume she would lose her control at the sight of a lycan. She wasn't a child. But the insinuation wasn't completely soundless. She didn't quite know how she'd react when faced with one. One of them.

She imagined the target as a lycan and let the arrow fly.

"It's why I lost the fight to you."

She dropped her bow, looking at him for the first time since he had entered the range.

"I outmatched you in skill and experience easily. It should've been an easy fight."

She smiled, an expression so rare that it felt strange on her face. "Are you saying you want a rematch?" Normally, she would never joke with anyone like this. But this was Devereaux.

She notched another arrow, lifting her bow, but not taking her eyes away from his.

He laughed. "No, simply showing what could happen no matter how experienced you are, no matter how many lycans you've killed before. Emotions should be controlled and channeled with a cool indifference. Like Lord Viktor."

Selene so yearned to be like Viktor, unclouded and aloof. She looked away from him, aiming her shot.

"So you're saying a fight with emotional significance should be carefully approached."

"Yes."

"So, what was so important about the fight with me?" she said, glancing at him once more. Her tone here was controlled to get something from him. She didn't like to think about these escalating flirtations, why she allowed them to happen. She didn't know what she wanted.

He stopped toying with the weapons as their eyes met. She knew from the look on his face that he wasn't playing now. She also knew that he wouldn't tell her. It couldn't be good, though. The passion that drove them to kill never was. As they continued to look at each other, the weight between them became a little unbearable, so she turned back to the target, raising her bow. The arrow flew. She ground her teeth as she missed the center again.

Though she wasn't looking at him, she knew he had rolled his eyes as he approached her, unable to control correcting her horrible shots any longer. "You'll never hit center with a grip like that. Here."

He put his hands over hers, repositioning them over the grip. She flushed. Deeply. This was the first time his hands had touched hers. They weren't cold like she'd thought they'd be. They were warm and smooth, gentle in his effort to help her. A little nervous, she tensed heavily under him, shifting uneasily. He didn't say anything if he noticed, continuing to push and alter until he was satisfied.

"Try it now," he said moving behind her. She tried to ignore his breath on the back of her neck.

She raised her bow. Her senses had sharpened, but not because her concentration was even remotely in the exercise. She could feel the heat from Devereaux standing so close, hear the rhythm of his breathing and the leather strecth as he shifted his weight. She tried to think about the lesson instead, the blood rage. She was shaking a little as she loosed the arrow. Still off center.

He moved behind her, this time adjusting her posture, his chest against her back as he moved her arms. It was difficult to breathe when his hands on her hips, moving her weight to her back leg.

"Move your legs out a little." She followed the order, not daring to make eye contact as she did so. She hadn't even so much as touched a person if violence wasn't involved since … never as a vampire. Was it always like this? Surely, they would all go mad. She was scared but equally enthralled.

"Doe—does blood rage ever happen when you're not angry?" It sounded like a childish question.

He looked at her questioningly, his eyes intense, the air felt heavy. Her gaze lingered for a moment on his lips as he looked away from her, checking her stance. She wondered what they'd feel like against her finger tips. She fought a mysterious physical change as he considered the question.

"I've seen it on others. Others in the castle. They weren't sparring or arguing, though," she said.

"Yes," he said stepping away, having finished. She lifted the bow, barely aiming. The arrow whistled through the air, striking the center of the target. She lowered her bow, satisfied. Her nerves hummed with adrenaline.

"Well?" She watched him, waiting.

"That would be blood lust. Any strong emotional response could cause the change really, but blood lust and blood rage are the most common. No need to get into that though. We'll have bigger problems if you experience that with a lycan."

He regarded her strangely. "Nice shot." She looked at the target, having completely forgotten she'd hit the center.

As much as she tried to think clearly, she couldn't. She wanted to respond, but the words just didn't come. She continued to look at him until he smiled amiably. "I'll leave you to it. You should be able to fire a decent arrow now."

He turned again to leave, but she was no longer concerned with shooting arrows.

………………………………………………..

Ever since the archery training with Devereaux, she'd felt on edge and restless, unable to relax or think straight. Her mind had spun with possibilities, with questions, as if she'd woken after several long years of sleep. She'd avoided him, though, equally frightened about what it all meant, worried that he would laugh at her foolishness, denounce their friendship once and for all. It had felt wonderful to be touched, to feel, but she couldn't help but think the reason he had never touched her before had been precisely this. He must've known she wouldn't be able to control her emotions like him, that she was still a child after all these years. She didn't want to be one of _those_ women.

It wasn't easy to avoid him. They were already too familiar with one another. Try as she might to evade him during training, he was there making her smile and forcing her to forget about her worries. It was with that easy demeanor, that mischievious and alluring way of his that he proposed a hand-to-hand combat training session.

"No, absolutely not," she said, walking quickly, trying to outpace him so the subject would drop.

"You've got to overcome your fear at some point. Wouldn't you rather it happen when no one is around to laugh when you lose?"

"I wouldn't lose," she responded defiantly.

"Sounds like a challenge." He said, smiling dangerously. She had to pull her eyes away from him, suppressing an unrecognizable feeling.

"I don't want to do it."

"What's the problem?" He said, taking her by the elbow and turning her to face him.

"I don't want to be punched by you. But thanks for the offer," she replied, shrugging out of his grasp.

"I'm sorry, is there someone else you'd rather be punched by?" he said with a hint of suggestion. She picked up on it immediately and instantly became flustered.

"No, it's just—I don't want to be—"

"It's settled, then. I'll meet you in the courtyard tomorrow at dusk." He lingered, sensing she might interject again. "That's an order."

She watched him leave, completely exasperated. How had he managed to wrangle everything he wanted out of the conversation? She couldn't be around him. Not until she had everything under control. But she also couldn't ignore an order.

………………………………………………..

The wind bit at her face as she waited. She could still see the last rays of color as they drained from the sky, leaving only blackness. The wind changed directions and she could smell him almost instantly, as if he stood right behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the he was. She instantly jumped a yard back.

"You like to watch the sun set," he said, a statement of fact.

Still rigorously trying to control her sudden adrenaline spike, she didn't say anything.

He laughed. "Follow me, Selene. We'll see if we can't find your repose again." She grumbled, frustrated that she hadn't had better discipline in front of him.

She followed his lean form into a chamber just off the courtyard. She took off her gloves upon entering and placed them on a table against the far wall. She attempted to tie back her long black hair more effectively. It wouldn't help if it fell in her face during their sparring. She wished she could cut it, but she already brought enough attention to herself as she was.

"I'm pleased not to see you in a skirt today," he said, watching her smooth out the creases in her newly made leather pants. She liked the smell of them, the dark brown color.

"Oh, don't jest, Devereaux. You're sad you can't step on it, making me trip like normal."

He laughed. "Oh, you see right through me. I use what advantages I can. It's not like it's easy, fighting you."

She definitely knew this fight wouldn't be easy. She'd been in this room a thousand times and had never felt nervous like this. This, too, was strange as the ring, a black circle painted on the floor, was usually outlined with an eager audience. Why should she be nervous now when no one was watching?

Devereaux stepped into the ring, his black boots falling just inside the line. He watched her expectantly, but she didn't move.

"Come on in."

"How exciting," she said, her voice completely devoid of enthusiasm. She moved into the ring, circling to the left. He mirrored her, lifting his arms up. She did the same with significant reluctance.

He stepped forward with alarming dexterity, his fist barely missing her jaw as she side-stepped to the right. She came back immediately, slamming her fist into his side. He braced himself against the blow, but he didn't stumble. She followed with another round to the ribs before he was able to move away, her fist swinging through the air. He grabbed her wrist in the air, spinning it behind her back and pushing forward. He slammed her into the wall on the opposite side of the ring, wrestling to pin her arm against her back. She used her free arm to slam her elbow into his face. He released her arm, pitching backwards.

"Are you sure you didn't want to do this alone to avoid your own embarrassment?" she said, watching him attempt to regain his balance.

He wiped the blood off his face with his forearm. "I'm making it easy for you," he said, a faint tone of derision in his voice, reminding her of the old days.

"Now. That's a challenge." Sneering, she threw out a right hook that she knew he would dodge. As he avoided the punch, she hit him again in the face with her left, a blow with the weight of an avalanche behind it. As she neared him for another blow, he spun upwards, an uppercut slicing past her chin as she moved backwards. Her foot lanced out, catching him hard in the stomach.

"I'm starting to think you don't want to hit me, Devereaux."

He looked at her, doubled over, a knee on the ground. He didn't say anything as he regained his composure. His face was unusually difficult to read.

He slowly advanced towards her. She watched every movement, looked for any clue that might warn her as to what he might do next. She wanted him to strike first this time. He continued to come close to her until she could feel his ragged breath on her face. Surprisingly, he opened his mouth and asked her a question.

"Have you ever been with a man, Selene?"

So stunned by the question, she dropped her hands a quarter of an inch. He struck like a viper. She staggered backwards, and he continued to assault her midsection until she had recovered enough to spin out from under the blows. While behind him, she smashed her elbow into the base of his neck. Though she had managed to regain the advantage, she was still reeling from the question. She could feel a different sort of rage building, a rage that spawned from intense embarrassment.

"What did you just ask me?"

He moved to look at her. She imagined it was painful to turn his neck after the damage she just inflicted. "You heard me."

She punched him again, not a second after the words were out of his mouth. She could hear his jaw crack. "How dare you. I am a lady in this castle."

He spat blood onto the floor as he stood straight again. "Is that what you think you are? You don't wear a dress. You don't observe rules of etiquette. You haven't been courted by a single man since you've been here—" She hit him in the face again before he could finish.

She could hardly think straight through the fury. This was her friend, her protector. The worst was he was voicing her deepest insecurities, saying that she was an outsider despite how hard she had worked to fit in. Her senses were on fire, she could feel everything, hear everything. But she couldn't stop from hitting him again, and again.

He blocked her after the third blow, pounding his knee into her stomach. She couldn't breathe after that. He back-handed her across the jaw, and she had lost the advantage as quickly as she had gained it. The smell of her own blood quickly permeated the air as he continued to assault her in every place that she couldn't defend quickly enough. Finally, he stopped her from side-stepping away, grabbing both of her shoulders and pushing her against the wall.

"You see what your anger can do if it's not controlled."

Though through the haze of her hatred and rage she understood that he was trying to teach her a lesson in blood rage, she still couldn't look at him. She coughed, a hand on her stomach as she tried to recuperate. He stepped closer to her, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm trying to help you," he said quietly.

She looked up, feeling her sharp canines smoothen and flatten, the rage draining away.

"I know about your family. I want you to be able to avenge them without dying in the process." He moved his hand to her cheek, making the skin there immediately hot. He lifted a strand of errant black hair out of her eyes, pushing it behind her ear. "You may not value your life beyond the death of one lycan, but—" he trailed off, his eyes becoming unfocused. He blinked several times, as if to keep whatever it was at bay.

"Uhm—" he said, still unable to continue his sentence. He couldn't unfasten his eyes from a spot on her face, as if there was something there of enormous distraction. His eyes slowly blended from brown to crystal blue as she lifted a hand up, daintily touching the spot he was looking at. Pain seared as she did so. She drew her hand back to look at it. Her finger tips were smeared with blood. She must've been bleeding from the nose or mouth.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me," she said, moving away from him.

"No," he said, stopping her. Holding her elbow, he pulled back her to him. They were close. Closer than they'd ever been. His scent overwhelmed her, a scent she had unconsciously come to find as alluring as his white, flawless smile. He looked at her with a peculiar craving that she recognized without understanding why. His hand trailed down her forearm to her hand, to her fingers. He lifted them, smearing the blood back onto her lips before covering them with his.

There was something about that action that should've disgusted her, but it didn't. In fact, the massive reaction her body had in response to it proved exactly the opposite. She could likewise taste his blood as she returned the kiss. She knew of nothing that could taste so good, that amazingly seductive. But she was hardly in a position to assess her emotions. Her feelings were out of her hands, her actions beyond her control. As Devereaux's arms wrenched her closer, she realized she was giving into something she had wanted for a long time. She had wanted to make a connection to someone else, but she hadn't known how.

His hands were everywhere, pushing, tearing her leather bodice off. She searched him, she needed to feel the heat of his skin against hers as she began to tear at his own clothing. The blood was pumping loud in her ears. He lifted her off the floor, his hands under her thighs, and shoved her back against the wall. She could feel the rough stone through her thin white shirt that remained as her head flew back. His mouth was on her neck. He kissed her there, his hands around her waist, moving under her shirt. His fingers brushed against the skin of her lower back, making her arc against the wall as they became more forceful, massaging deeply into the muscle.

He made a noise deep in his throat as she moved into him. He opened his mouth against her neck and she felt a sharp pain, the trickle of blood flow. She cried out, but she wasn't sure if it was out of pleasure or pain. She hurled her palms into his chest, knocking him backwards. She ran at him, jumping into his arms. He hurtled backwards, falling onto the wooden table, her on top of him. Their mouths were on each other's again, hungry and frenzied. She bit the inside of his lip. Hard. As she drank, she could no longer suppress the sound inside her, the moan of being deeply enraptured. He pulled her higher up on the table, and she knew she was about to do something her mother had warned her about.


	4. Love

**Author's Note** – To London Vixen. You're awesome for always reading my new chapters and reviewing. Thanks for the encouragement!

She sat down on the bed, not moving for a few moments. She closed her eyes, exhaling for the first time since they had left Lucian's lair. It was so silent in this place, the way things used to be. No rush of cars, no hum of electricity. When things were like this, she could close her eyes and be back home. She could stay this way until time swallowed her up. She wished not for the first time that it would.

Opening her eyes, she reached down and grabbed the heel of her boot, feeling her exhaustion. The nap she'd had earlier was nothing more than a few minutes of nightmarish images fluttering behind her eyelids. Blood. Pain. She pulled at the boot until her foot was free and started to reach for the next. She tore at it as her hands started shaking too badly to be unbuckle the straps. She stood, hurling the heavy leather at the wall, struggling against her rage. What was wrong with her? She didn't lose it like this. She was untouchable and unfeeling. She didn't have problems with emotional control.

She dug her hands into her hair as his name resounded in her mind. Viktor. Her hero. Her father. _He betrayed me_. Her whole life was a lie. She pushed her hands over her face. She was crying, her chest stinging from the effort of trying to hold it back.

She spun from the spot. She had to find something to hurt, something to kill. That's what she was now, wasn't it? A senseless killer. A monster. How many had she murdered in the last month? The last week? The one in the train station, but what about before that? She couldn't remember. It had become so meaningless.

She turned towards the door, her gun out and cocked before the silhouette had a chance to move.

Michael stood there, puzzled. He was looking at the boot on the floor by the wall. Of course. He'd heard the sound. They'd traveled for several hours, mostly in silence until they had reached this small house in the English woods. She masked her expression quickly as he looked from the boots to her bare feet.

"I was starting to think you never took those things off," he said, a wry expression on his face. Hardly in a position to respond to humor she turned and sat back down on the bed.

He lingered, not coming in, as if waiting for her permission. He'd recognized when they'd reached the cottage an hour ago that they were to sleep in the separate quarters in the house, these being hers. She thought of turning him away, but she didn't know what she would do if she were to be alone with her thoughts. She didn't look at him, not wanting to deal with it. She heard him tentatively step inside.

"We haven't exactly had access to a change of clothes." Her own voice sounded strained, alien. She reached over, picking up the errant boot, placing it next to the other. The order was somewhat comforting.

She started undoing the laces of her bodice. She needed to undress, but she felt it might be inappropriate to do so in front of him, so she hesitated. Casting a sideways glance at him, she saw he was inspecting her room curiously.

"So, you live here?"

She looked around. She wondered if he would read into her possessions as a reflection of her personality. If so, things looked quite grim. The room was economical. Bare.

"When I come to London, yes."

"Is this where you lived before?"

"What do you mean?" she responded without looking up, rolling up her belt and placing it onto the bedside table.

"You know, before you were turned?"

She looked at him peculiarly. After a pause, she shook her head.

"You're not from London?"

It felt strange to be asked that, and it took her a moment to analyze why. It occurred to her that vampires never asked where you came from. They didn't care. Tanis had been unusual in that respect, equally fascinated with both the history of buildings and empires as well as people. Then she realized how long she'd been stationed in London. The accent, that's why he thought she was from here. He had no idea beyond the spare details she'd told him about how old she was, where she'd come from, what she'd seen. With a burgeoning sense of despair, she recognized that her only ally in the world was nothing more than a stranger. It wouldn't take him long to see they had nothing in common once he started getting answers. He would see her for what she was.

"No." It was unsettling for her to even think about such a trivial question. Could she even give him answers about her past? Where had she grown up? What had the meadows looked like, the trees? If she told him the name of the area, would he recognize it? Did it even have the same name now?

"How are your bullet wounds?" he said, apparently sensing her extreme discomfort with the subject matter and mercifully changing the topic.

"Oh." She began to peel the bodice off. Though she couldn't see him, she knew he was tensing. A perk of their bond, she guessed. Great. He would see she had an underlying tank on soon enough. The leather tended to chafe terribly.

She noticed all of the holes in the bodice as she dropped it on the floor. That was perplexing. That many? Michael took a sharp breath, moving toward her. She followed his eyes to her midsection where the blood was caked so thickly you couldn't see the cloth. It was everywhere, over her pale white arms, her slim shoulders.

He was kneeling in front of her before she could protest. She put an arm out, palms spread, to keep him back, wanting desperately for him to keep his distance. But he just took her arm in his hands and looked for signs of a wound. He worked over her muscles gently, the ease of a doctor. There were small pink scars forming there, nothing else. He continued on to her midsection, lifting her shirt gingerly. The wounds there were closing, too.

"I guess we heal pretty fast then?"

She nodded, a bit preoccupied with his fingers on her stomach. "You're blood likely helped the process."

She glanced at his hand, the heat of it spreading through her stomach. Their eyes locked, and there was a moment where she was terrified that he saw everything. The fear, the sadness. He couldn't be this close to her. She moved out from under him, quickly getting to her feet and pacing to the other end of the room. She leaned against the double doors that led onto the balcony.

"You should probably clean the blood off," she could hear his disappointment and confusion.

She nodded again, crossing her arms, and working particularly hard to suppress her emotions, which were more than rage and despair at this point.

"You know, maybe I should stay with you tonight—"

"No."

"Why?"

"Michael, I don't think that's necessary. I'm sure you need some time to process all of this."

"I'd rather be with you."

She looked at him and he looked back with her. She thought about their kiss and now their bond. She didn't know how she would cope if something happened to him after she had allowed him to become closer than they already were.

"I need to be alone."

He stood, nodding. He could accept that. He paused at the doorway, turning to her.

He started slowly. "When you bit me, I saw—"

"Stop." She said immediately. She didn't want to hear this. "Please just go."

With a good deal of difficulty he removed himself from the doorway and left. She heard his footsteps receding into the other half of the house.

She threw the double doors open and swept out onto the balcony. She looked over the guardrail, gripping the metal, her knuckles white. She didn't deserve anyone or anything. Tanis had been right those many years ago, but she didn't understand until now. It wasn't being a vampire that made her a monster, it was being who she was.

* * *

His fingers dangled in front of her eyes, like wind chimes swelling in the breeze. She looked down the length of them, allowing her eyes to trail up to the wrist, explore the forearm, and find his eyes. He moved his hand to cup her face. She leaned into it, the silk sheets stretching across her back.

"I know you detest such things," he said, his voice resonant in the quiet. She moved his hand to her mouth, kissing his palm, his knuckles. "But I want to take you to the solstice ball."

She ignored him, kissing his fingers with an increasing thirst for his scent, his taste. She could tell he'd almost lost his train of thought. She'd have to work harder.

He slid his arm around the small of her back, and she slipped on top of him, their legs becoming tangled, but in a perfect way. The way fallen tree branches might lay on each other for years.

"Listen to me," he said, begging.

She smiled faintly before nuzzling into his neck. She nipped him, and began to lick up the small trickle of blood. He groaned, pushing her back, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Don't distract me. You're too good at it."

She shifted onto her elbow, resigned. "You want me to go to that masquerade?"

"I think you're being a little harsh. It could be fun. Our men will be there. You know, your friends."

She licked the last drop of blood off of her lips slowly, letting him watch. She shook her head as he leaned in to kiss her. With his lips over hers, his tongue found the blood she'd taken from him, pushing across her lips in with a slow and pleasurable purpose.

"No? We'll see about that." As his lips worked over hers, she couldn't stop her body from responding. She moved with the rhythm of their kiss. He grasped her wrists and was pinning her against the bed before she'd even thought to resist.

He pulled the sheet from between them, she watched it go like the unmeasured opening of a theater curtain. The length of their bodies came into contact. She opened her mouth fully to him, but he pulled away, his breath against her ear.

"Half the fun of putting the dress on is getting you out of it," he murmured, wrapping his hands under her thighs, messaging.

"You keep it up, and we'll never even make it to training."

She smiled as he continued to kiss her, daring her to tell him to stop. She could feel her teeth sharpening as she lost _her _train of thought. He pulled away just enough to see her face. She could see there was that look in his eye, the one she'd seen more often lately.

"Why do you look at me like that? What is it?" she said softly as she weaved her fingers through his thick black hair. His expression changed, becoming more serious. He turned her to the side, and slid in behind her. He was always so careful with her, she thought.

"I had a wife before I became a vampire."

She paused, imagining this. She'd never thought much about what anyone had been before they became a vampire. Her own preoccupation with her life as a human had been so forefront in her mind for so long, it seemed odd she hadn't assumed the same with everyone else. She had trouble remembering it now, though. "You had a family?"

"Yes."

A family, she thought. What had that felt like? Like talking to the other warriors, laughing, sparring. Familiar faces. Home. Her eyes unfocused a bit as she got lost in memory. The smell of her father, the scent of her sister cooking the meat for their evening meal.

"What were they like?" she said, drawing as close as to him as she could.

"She was a lot like you, I suppose." There was a tinge of unease in his voice. She craned her neck to look at him.

"How?"

"Stubborn." She sniffed at him, turning back. "Beautiful," he added, laughing, and touching her until she looked at him again.

"There was just something about her." She had heard stories that sounded like these from the others before. They didn't end well.

"What happened?"

He paused.

"Killed by thieves when I was fighting abroad."

He sighed. "It was a long time ago. Viktor approached me soon after. I figured nothing mattered, not any more at least. So, I was turned."

She put her hand on his face, enjoying the rough texture.

"I suppose that's why I reacted the way I did when you first got here. My wife was defiant like you, never let me tell her what to do. I think something within me never forgave her for convincing to leave to protect our land. I don't think I ever forgave humans for doing it either."

She continued to stroke his face, until he pulled her hand away, kissing the palm.

"Viktor turned me after my family was killed by the lycans." Her voice sounded so detached, like she was talking about something that happened a long time ago and to someone else. She thought maybe it had. "I didn't think I would ever feel alive again. It's been so long."

"Me either," he said, and kissed her again, slow so she could feel everything.

She was smiling when he pulled away, but she imagined it looked sad. She wanted to tell him that her feelings went beyond the physical time that they shared, beyond attraction. But something stopped her. It felt too vulnerable. Talking about the ones they lost, both being soldiers in a war where casualties were as common as victories, it seemed hard to say anything aloud where, once said, she could never pretend otherwise.

She sighed. "So, the others will be at the ball?"

"If I go, they'll want to come," he said simply.

"I have to wear a dress?"

"I don't think that leather bodice will impress the women of the court much."

She rolled her eyes. "As if those contraptions of torture are any better."

"See, just imagine it like a battle."

"Devereaux, it will be a battle."

She thought about it a bit further. "Promise not to leave my side," she said, images of Kraven sliding to the front of her mind. She didn't mind the dancing, the dress, the small talk, as much as the thought of Kraven and his constant insinuations. If it wasn't their perfect and erotic future together, it was implications that Devereaux might not make it on the battlefield.

"I won't," he answered darkly. It wasn't something they talked about, but it was hard to go unacknowledged.

* * *

She was training with Barend, a veteran warrior she'd grown quite fond of. They were both distracted though, lax in the effort they brought to their sword play. Both resisted memories of the ball as they danced through their heads, altogether unbidden and uncontrollable.

"Selene, you're not even making this hard for me," he said with a wolfish smile after landing a blow on her shoulder with the broad side of his sword.

"I'm sorry, I was just remembering what you wore to the ball."

"Oh," he said. "As if Selene in a dress didn't shock half our battalion into speechlessness."

"Why thank you," she said with a smile and an over the top courtsy, bowing low. He charged her hoping to catch her off guard, but she had suspected as much. She nimbly stepped aside, tripping him. He face planted into the snow.

"Now that might've worked on that hollow-headed woman I saw you dancing with last night, but not me, Barend."

He laughed, getting up. "Why ever did I choose to get whipped daily by you instead of her? And none of the perks either."

"The first Lycan you come across is going to be very sorry," he added.

"They won't be sorry. Just dead," she said, the disgust ringing heavy in her voice.

He gathered himself back up to his full height, which was around 6 feet and looked at her thoughtfully. "I saw Lord Kraven at that ball. I don't think he was all too happy about your escort."

This bothered her. Nearly seventy-five years in the castle and members of the coven still associated her with him.

"What do I care what he thinks?" she said, betraying her anger a bit too much.

Before they could continue, the heavy wooden doors flew open. It was their commanding officer. They turned and gave him their complete attention. The other men in the sparring yard did the same.

"Steady your blades. I've got good news," Devereaux said to all the men listening raptly.

"We've been given orders to eradicate a small Lycan den one day's ride from here." The men burst into short bits of conversation, excited and intrigued by the news.

"I know many of you have not had a chance to wet your swords with Lycan blood, so this is it. Prove your worth. We move out tomorrow night."

A Lycan den. Selene would finally be able to put her years of training to use. Her life was finally headed in a direction she could bear. She had a purpose in life and someone she could share it with. She couldn't be happier. But then something ate gradually into the short-lived happiness, something sinister at the back of her mind. She moved to follow Devereaux out of the yard, but Barend clapped her on the back so hard she nearly fell over.

"You get your wish after all!" he bellowed, quickly turning to the other men, giving each that back breaking congratulations.

"Deveraux," she said to him, moving quickly to catch pace with him, her hands tensed tightly across the hilt of her sword, a habit.

He stopped in the small breezeway connecting to the castle.

"What does this mean?"

He didn't look at her at first. He pulled his gloves from his fingers, slowly and mechanically, clearly lost in thought.

"I don't know."

"Was it an order from Kraven?"

His head turned, putting his finely drawn features in profile. "Yes."

Her brows knitted into a well-practiced expression of worry. Reading her face, he added, "I cannot ignore or seek to change an order from him. You know that."

After a long pause, she said, "It should've been you at that battle. You should've taken the skin from Lucian's arm."

"It wasn't though. He made sure of that."

Selene didn't want to look at him. "He stole that victory from you."

"Selene," he said warningly.

"It's not fair!"

"Yes, it is. I don't have his ambition. And I've suffered appropriately because of it."

"No," she said, feeling the anger flare. "You follow orders too well. Who knows what kind of mission this really is, and you've just accepted it."

He took a step closer to her, his own anger igniting. "You should check whatever it is that makes you disregard his orders so easily. You don't just get a position like his without merit. If you trust Viktor so much, you should trust Kraven."

She shook her head, not listening. Somehow she just knew Viktor had gone wrong with Kraven. She would give anything for evidence.

"Because no matter how much you wanted things to play out differently, they didn't. Kraven unseated the Lycan stronghold, not me. He has a right to send you and I wherever he wants to."

"He could be sending us into the mouth of hell."

"So be it. What is the use of being a warrior if we are not tested by battle."

"You're only going because it's been so long since you've seen a battle, thanks to Kraven." No matter how true it was, she wished she hadn't said it immediately.

"Then learn a lesson from me. By pursuing you, I have earned my current position. Fair or unfair, Kraven has the power to do whatever he wants for whatever reasons he wants."

"More the reason to question his undeserved position."

Deveraux thought about this very seriously, his face taut with tension and anger.

"What am I supposed to do?"

She swallowed, her mouth had become uncomfortably dry. She didn't want to continue down the path their conversation had taken, but everything within her could not abide by the situation they'd been put it.

"Duel him. Like you did with me. Viktor will listen then."

She stared into his eyes, hoping he would understand how dire their situation would continue to be if he didn't do something about Kraven. He had already waited too long. As long as Devereaux did nothing, he had the power to keep him in the confines of the castle as long as he wanted, which Selene knew was worse for Devereaux than just killing him.

"Promise me you will. When we return."

He took a deep breath and took both her hands and in his.

"I'm sorry this has happened to you because of me," she said, feeling the weight of Kraven's obsession heavier than ever.

He sighed, "It would've been like this with or without you. The men would've always been more loyal to me, and someone like Kraven would never be able to abide by that."

Seeing her mounting concern, he squeezed her hands, forcing her eyes to his and said, "I will challenge him. But not for the glory or the power or the freedom. But for you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Before they left the next evening, as the sun continued its gradual descent towards the horizon, Selene visited Devereaux's chambers. He was dressed plainly in one of his long-sleeved white shirts and worn leather leggings. He had just looked up when she'd rushed toward him, her hands on his neck and lips on his mouth before he could do anything.

Later, when they were in bed, she'd told him what she needed to, knowing as she did before that she would never be able to take it back. Nor would she ever be able to forget him saying it back.


	5. Fear

Hot air flared from her horse's mouth, a plume of white in the dark sky, as Selene rose steadily over a snow-covered hill. The plow of so many horses' hooves crunched like breaking glass in the snow, echoing out into the night. She watched the moonlight dance off the snow drifts, shining silver and bright through the tree branches which were brittle and jagged from the harsh cold. This was the only cold she'd ever known, even when she'd been human. It was deep and unyielding. A draft so biting would cut you like a knife several feet from any door, but she loved the winter. She loved it more as a vampire, since she could feel the painful part of it less and the enjoyable part of it more. She breathed it in, savoring the layers of complexity, the dead leaves, the dry woods, the warm dirt beneath the snow. Maybe even a part of her loved it because it reminded her of being alive.

She opened her eyes, having caught Devereaux's scent close by. She glanced over, picking up a snippet of his conversation.

"Forty-five. But that was before I got assigned to train you lot."

"Forty-five? Utter rubbish!" said a man to his right, clapping Devereaux on the shoulder. "Pretty easy to lie about it when there's no way of knowing without evidence!"

Devereaux moved, unsheathing his blade. It was a sword Selene hadn't seen before, pale and beautifully dangerous. He gestured to tiny indentations on the blade, a short line of notches that might've otherwise gone unnoticed.

"Before any of you even knew what a lycan was, I was keeping track like this."

The men looked on at Devereaux, as ever, in unwavering awe. Selene furtively checked her own blade, which looked like a newborn, naked without its marks of war, now looking more like finely crafted ornament than a weapon of battle.

"If you make me proud, I'll add the notches to your swords myself."

The men continued to look on admiringly, their faces growing somber, imaginary battles not yet had playing backwards and forwards in their minds. Christian, the man who'd been pestering Devereaux, looked up and saw her watching.

"I don't know how many of them we're going to get tonight with a woman with us," he said in Selene's general direction, a smile on his face. It was such an easy button to push. She rolled her eyes.

"How'd you get that scar on your back, Christian?" She countered easily. "Certainly wasn't from killing a lycan."

"I told you that in secret!" he barked across the distance.

"What's she talking about?" Devereaux said, curiosity lighting across his face. Selene smirked.

"Come on. Show them," Selene said, balling her hands tighter into her reins, happy to have a conversation to detract from her thoughts.

"Now don't be jealous, commander, but she is always trying to get me out of my clothes. So, she happened to succeed once."

Selene involuntarily made a face.

"Okay, maybe twice."

"Best listen to her, Christian, or it will be more than Selene getting your out of your clothes to see that scar," Devereaux said with a wolfish grin, joining several of the other men in howling like wolves at Christian.

"Well, when you put it that way," Christian laughed, making a mock shudder.

He turned in his saddle and pulled his shirt down hard, struggling against his leather harness. In the night, Selene could just make out the jagged edge of a white, fading scar. Even at the tip it was giant, indicating both its width and length covered the whole of his back. Many of the others who had started listening and watching began barraging him with questions, shouting out various disgusting ways one might acquire such a scar.

Christian refused to answer any of them until one young recruit said, "Was it from a woman?"

Selene laughed. "It's always from a woman."

"Well, it's certainly a story to tell!" He leaned in toward the pack of men, as if about to divulge an important secret. "And it started with an ill-conceived prank at dinner time."

All the men were riveted as he continued, but something on the edge of Selene's consciousness distracted her. A hand brushed against her arm, and she turned to see Devereaux soundlessly materialize next to her, his face grave.

"What is it?"

"Our scout hasn't returned," he said after a moment's pause.

She could hear the roar of laughter from the circle of men now moving slower behind them, but it felt like they were far away. Drearily, she recognized that he was using the commotion of Christian's story to tell her this disturbing information. She knew if Devereaux was worried, they should all be. Why wasn't he telling anyone else?

"I sent him out yesterday to survey the den and report on the size of the pack. He said it didn't look like there had ever been more than four or five living there, if not just one deserter. But it was underground."

He'd stopped, but she felt like there should be more. "How big was it?"

He breathed in, another puff of hot air as he exhaled. "Huge. Several caverns, and he didn't have time to find out how deep before sunrise."

She thought about what this meant, how many possible obstacles and pitfalls they could encounter. If the lycans knew the den better than they did, they would certainly be at a disadvantage. Even at her menial stage of training, she knew a disadvantage meant quick and certain casualties.

"And you sent him again before we left tonight?"

"Yes. He should be back by now," he said, staring into the black night. Cloud cover was starting to distort the ghostly moon, slowly fading it from sight. "I probably shouldn't even have sent a scout."

"Why? Isn't that procedure?"

"Not on this mission. It could look like insubordination. When Kraven briefed me, he said our only purpose was to seal the den, that it was empty and that battle was unlikely. He said it would make for a perfect training mission. But I just wanted to be careful. I would've brought more men if I actually thought there'd be lycans. And he gave me such short notice, I didn't figure I'd need to make a tactical strategy."

"But you told us all there'd be lycans tonight."

"I figured it best for all of you to be ready for anything."

Inwardly, she was a bit annoyed that Devereaux had lied to her. Mainly because she'd had no idea, even if he was working in her best interests by keeping her prepared.

"Should we return to the castle?" she said, worry now adding to the layer of annoyance in her tone. She didn't propose the question because she'd wanted to. In fact, the very last thing she wanted was for him to think she was afraid. It just seemed safer to wait until they knew what was waiting for them.

He paused for a long time. "I can't return to the castle empty-handed. Not with a mission this simple."

"You mean not with a mission from Kraven." He looked away, as much acknowledgment as she would get.

"I'm sure it will be fine," she added, trying to sound solid and reassuring. "After all, you brought the best." She hazarded a glance at their men, who were all nearly falling off of their horses from laughing. As stupid as they looked now, she knew this was true. Devereaux followed her line of sight and barked a silencing command, snapping them back to the gravity of the situation. Quiet quickly fell across the ranks, each expression falling back into disciplined seriousness.

Selene let her thoughts wander as they continued on, her brow tightly wrought in concern. Would the Lycans look like their pictures? Matted, bristling fur. Long, hooked claws. Would they move like the vampires? She wondered if she'd be able to see their eyes, if she'd be able to see any of the man beneath. Her hate prickled as she thought about it. She didn't want to see anything but the monsters that they were. Man or not, she wouldn't hesitate when she struck. Would she feel vindicated? Would she be afraid?

Snow began falling as their unit crossed an iced over lake. If she focused, she could hear the splinters deep within the ice, the fractures that weakened the surface. As she used the blunt part of her leather glove to swipe the fragile flakes off of her nose, listening, Devereaux brushed his elbow against hers again.

"It's not far now. We'll be there soon."

She looked into his eyes, trying to read them. No success.

"Can you smell it?" he asked.

She blinked, taking in the scents of the night, searching. It didn't take long to pinpoint. It was thick and musky.

"Yes. It's.." she said, trailing off as she tried to find the word. She wanted to say disgusting, but it was that and something else entirely.

"It'll get stronger when we go down there."

"Does that mean they're here?"

"It might. Could just be left over."

As they descended down a hill on the edge of the lake, a mass of black and brown against the pristine white, she saw the opening. It sat against its surroundings like a black void in the earth, as if the there terrain just ended, sucked into that silent and gaping hole.

"Be careful," was one of the last things she remembered Devereaux saying. Later, she'd remember his arm raised, signaling the others. She'd remember the dismount, the silent tethering of their horses. She'd remember watching his form, silhouetted black against the snow, slipping into rock jaws of the cave mouth.

…………………………………………..

She was face down, her cheek against the ground. The first thing she felt was the merciless pounding against her skull, the heavy weight of her head pressing the edge of her eyebrow into the stone, weighing down on her as if it were made of steel. The second thing was the strain of the muscles in her neck, pulled taut from having lied there a long time like that.

She didn't move, even when she recognized it. It was suffocating and unbearable. It was everywhere. She'd felt a lot of things before this moment, a lot of things other than waking up wet, dirty, and face down in something. She'd felt fingers shatter, tendons tear, bones break. She'd felt sunshine and water and grass. Lips, silk, and hair. But never had she felt her skull crack. Never bone mending slowly, agonizing, never an invisible needle threading tissue back together. If anything had woken her up, it wasn't the will to live. It was the hot, searing, excruciating pain at the base of her skull. It was the feeling of her brain being inside out.

It was that and the smell. She couldn't die with that smell all around her, not even if she wanted to.

When she finally broke through the torture that was her every pulsating movement, she managed a single thought, a wordless question.

Where?

She heard the word over and over in her head, a guttural, wrenching sound escaping her throat as she moved her arms. They'd been splayed beside her, disobeying her commands at first, as if no longer attached. As she lifted herself up, her hand shot out like a broken tentacle, searching for something, anything as it hit the air in an uneven, shaking arc. Her fingertips struck a wall, grimy, wet. Just as she thought there couldn't be any more, a shooting, mind wracking pain spiraled up from her elbow. That was broken, too.

She couldn't cry out so much as clench her teeth to the point of breaking. As her mind continued to clear, she struggled to remember how she got to be in this dark, stagnant place. Pictures flashed before her, she thought she heard her name coming from somewhere. She couldn't organize anything into coherence. It was as if a part of her mind had splintered off from the whole.

She struggled into a crouching position, her left arm rigid, the joint unmoving and riddled with pain. She worked to assess the facts. Nothing about the scenery was familiar. Nothing. She was underground. Judging from the state of her own wounds, she should be dead, but she wasn't, so there had been a fight. She was alone. Alone. The soldiers, the cave. It hit her then.

"No," she said, a croaking unintelligible sound. Where were her men, her friends? Where was Devereaux?

She scrambled forward, but immediately fell over something, her eyes still not adjusted to the dark. Her hands sank into it as she pushed back, lifting up. Something big. Sticky and wet. Hairy. She knew what it was by the smell and flew backwards, away from it. She pushed herself flat against the wall, fear choking her thoughts. She couldn't look at it, so instead stared forward, seeing that she was in a long tunnel.

Her mind worked furiously. She'd come down this tunnel. She'd come down this tunnel running. Something else. She looked down. The hilt of her sword glittered like a diamond in the dark, looming out of the black profile of the dead animal. She leaned over and wrenched the blade out of its chest, feeling the bone in its back splinter where the sword had been embedded. This was hers. But she should have more weapons, more armor. It was all gone. Where? She needed to find the others.

She'd already started down the tunnel when she heard it move. Unbelieving she returned her gaze to the thing. She moved back, standing over it. She could see the wounds slowly closing up, could hearing the bone reshaping, coming together again. Impossible. She watched maybe a second longer before lifting her sword high. She cut its head off first and then hacked at the rest of it, hoping to mutilate it so thoroughly that it would be unrecognizable, that it would not come back again. Limping away, she knew it would look like the mangled carcass of a man now rather than the beast it was. So, she didn't look back.

She nearly fell over a giant boulder. Looking around, she saw them everywhere, heaving in and out of her path. Edging out of the tunnel, she blinked her eyes, begging her concentration to return. There was a lot of blood. She could smell it heavy under the lycan stench. The tunnel ended in a small cavern where there were three bodies, two vampire, one lycan. She held her sword in front of her as she continued through. She didn't want to see the faces.

This was the right way to go, something told her. This was where she'd been going. But she stopped, turning back to look down the tunnel from which she'd come. She was not going towards the way out. The faintest bit of fresh was coming from the other direction. But … she'd been coming down this way before the lycan had attacked her. She'd been following something.

Shouts. She started running toward the sounds, away from the fresh air. She shot down several passageways, her shoulders scraping against rock. She could smell water. And another vampire. She burst into an opening and bounced directly into the back of a giant, monstrous lycan.

She tumbled to the floor. It whipped around, lightning fast, faced her. It opened its jaws, and roared. Stunned by the fetid breath, it took half a second too long before she threw her sword right into its gaping jowls. It flew back, but not fast enough. Blood sprayed across her front, her face. Before she could do anything else, a sword sliced clear across and through the shoulder and neck. Another massive splash of blood across the wall to her right, and it collapsed forward like a falling haystack.

"Selene."

Her eyes went out of focus, the back of her skull blazing in incredible pain for a few long seconds. When would it get better? Why didn't it heal like the lycan's chest?

"Selene," the man's voice said again, weaker. He was knealing in the center of the room, just behind the dead lycan.

"Devereaux?" she said, resisting the urge to just go to sleep.

The way he looked at her. "No, Selene. It's me."

"Barend."

"Yes. Come over…" he said weakly. "Come to me."

She crawled over to him just as he slumped sideways, his legs under him, his sword falling out of his hand. She delicately put her fingers out, pulling his leather chest piece back. It was soaked through. He would bleed to death. She looked into his eyes and he knew it, too.

"Here," he said, holding out his wrist.

"No, Barend."

"A minute maybe. I won't need it any more," he said smiling. "You will. You're injured. I thought you were dead. Maybe he's alive, too?"

"Where is he?"

"You don't remember?" he breathed, looking through her. "There," he motioned his head at the water, the pond she hadn't noticed to her right. But that's not what he was bringing her attention too. Behind it, there was a giant heap of pointed, broken rocks. "Back there."

He laughed bitterly. "It wasn't the right way, was it?"

She remembered then. Deveraux and the six of them that were left. Devereaux had been trying to lead them out, towards the water. Wrong tunnel. She stared at the impenetrable stone blockade, not quite understanding. He was in there, they'd drug him in there. Cave in. She looked at one of her hands. The fingertips were still bleeding from tearing, clawing at the rocks between her and Devereaux.

She shook her head, and the tears started welling without her consent, without her wanting them to be there. Barend didn't have to die, too. She had been too slow both times. Too slow for Barend now, too slow when she'd heard the deep fragmenting of stone, that echoing rumble of disaster. They'd been running down that tunnel when of a lycan had jumped out from the clearing they were now in, grabbing Devereaux, claws sinking deep into his shoulder, dragging him through the doorway. She had lunged after him when the rocks started falling, when the world came to pieces around them. When she'd gotten up, trying hard to get the debris out of her eyes, there'd been another one. Its black eyes fixed on her, drool spiraling slowly out of the corner of its mouth.

"You know," Barend said again, interrupting her thoughts, breath cold against her skin. She looked at him. "My mother used to sing to me."

The tears had made her face wet, the caked blood cracking uncomfortably over her skin. Looking at Barend, she couldn't quite feel that shriveling, breaking feeling yet, but it would come. She didn't want to feel it again, but she knew she would. It did every time someone close to her died. She pulled his head into her lap, and stroked his hair, hands shaking. She hummed to him, she didn't have the voice for anything else, until he closed his eyes. She hummed as she lifted his wrist to her mouth, and she drank until his breathing slowly stopped.

When she opened her eyes, his face was empty and pale. She laid his head on the ground and stood. Things were clearer, she felt her calculating awareness slowly returning. She rubbed her hand across her forehead, her face, begging the grief to stop. Focusing on her elbow, she noticed she could bend it a fraction of an inch more. With one last look into the face she'd seen every day, trained with every day for years, she turned away, back towards the fresh air.

As she left, she stared over her shoulder at that mute, unmoving mass of rocks. She couldn't stay, she thought, there could be more lycans. Besides, she couldn't move all of those rocks in time. It didn't matter what she might try. He was dead, she told herself. Devereaux was dead.

She drug herself out of that cave clearing. Her pace quickening, she routed through several tunnels, several deep fissures. She passed more and more of her fallen comrades, more dead lycans. This was more than four or five. This was a den. She stopped suddenly, dropping down, cloaked in shadow. A man of at least six and a half feet loomed at the end of the passage. She could see, even in the darkness, that eyes were yellow as they flashed briefly, uninterested in her direction.

"How many are dead?" he said. His voice was higher than she'd thought, like a pig squealing. Like a coward. There was amusement there, too, as if he were looking at a row of dolls not corpses. She hated him.

She crept silently down the edge of the tunnel, following him as he moved through another opening. He was looking down at the ravaged corpse of a vampire, someone she'd known, someone she'd seen every day. Both rage and fear fought for dominance as her hands started shaking, her sword low by her knees, quivering slightly.

"I think we got 'em all." A different voice just out of sight. She could just make out his bare feet on the cold cave floor, yellow toe nails crusted in mud. She leaned farther. This one was holding a dead vampire, Christian, up by his leather harness, fingers wrapped tightly, staring into his unseeing eyes inches away from him.

"Not alive now are we? Got gutted by our own sword didn't we?" He was shaking Christian's lolling head in agreeance every time he asked a question, the vampire's whole body limply shuddering with each jolt. "Thought you'd bring your friends down into our house and kill us?" He shook him until his head flopped a 'yes.'

"Underestimated me and my brother, didn't we?" He shook him again and threw him backwards, onto the corpse of another vampire. His body lay crumpled there, at unnatural angles, his mouth slightly open. The lycan turned towards the other. She could see his bald head, his pudgy, rounded cheeks. He was shorter than his brother, but just as stocky. There was something very common about him which made him all the more unnerving.

"How many of us?" His brother asked.

He continued to gaze blankly at his brother, this an answer in itself.

"I see."

"This one here," the lycan said, thrusting a finger down at Christian. "Is an elite. Do you know what that means?" The brother shrugged. "What is an elite doing here? One of us has to report to András. He won't be happy."

As the broad-shouldered one turned, his long, pointed nose facing her dark hiding spot, she flew forward, blade tip leading first. The tip sank into his chest, blood erupting, sliding fast down over the blade, pouring to the floor. She ripped it free, the lycan falling back, howling in pain. The man writhed there, hands over his chest, as smoke curled slowly from the wound.

The second lycan just stared at her, a smile on his downturned lips, like a snarl. Unlike his brother, his eyes were so dark, they were like coal, a mirror of the black passageway behind her.

"Now, that weren't very ladylike."

Another long moment passed, his brother's choked gargles reverberating intermittently off the walls. He took a step forward.

"You scared?"

She felt the heat rise to her face.

"Your sword is shakin'. You never killed one of us before?" He took another step forward, but jumped back as she slashed the air just in front of him.

"Manners, manners."

He turned then, lightning fast, picking up Christian's body by the neck.

"You see this one here? He was scared, too. But he weren't no lady. What is the world coming to that I got a maim a lady pretty as you. Ain't you got some dresses to be sowin' somewhere?" He idly turned Christian for the first time, and Selene could now see why he was dead. The blood dripped, but the droplets were small, as if there were hardly any blood left, from the giant gashes, dozens small and large. One stood out from the others, rending his back straight to the bone. She suddenly remembered his story, his laughing face, about the scar.

As her eyes remained transfixed on the gashes, he lunged at her, the body slumping to the ground. His arm caught her sword hand and she dropped it. They flew backwards onto the ground. She kicked and struggled, catching him good once in the stomach. Her hands scratched and clawed at his face and he cried out leaping backwards, but only for a moment. He was back on top of her and they were rolling, wrangling again.

"You know I kind of like it when their feisty," he sniggered as the back of her hand caught him in the jaw. But he caught it, pinning it to the floor, her open palm scrambling for leverage against the ground. As he held her there, battling fiercely to be free, he opened his mouth and breathed on her. Her eyes flitted back to his mouth and she could see inside, the teeth stained with blood. She could smell what was on his breath, her friends, her soldiers. Her hand hit something and she grabbed it.

"You like that, dearie?"

She slammed the rock into the side of his head ,a squirt of red obscuring her vision. She continued to beat him with it, gaining more and more strength with each blow until he sagged over her, blood plastering her chest, her face. She pushed him off and got up, wiping at her face, trying to feverishly get it off. She was shaking harder more than ever as she looked up and saw where she was. She could see the cold snow glinting in the night. She moved to leave, but heard something. She looked back and saw the brother, stinking and dying.

…………………………………………..

They were all dead. The horses, too. Except her. Except for the lycan she dragged behind her at the end of a thick rope she'd found. Judging from the tracks they had left and the other dead lycans she'd found, their number had not been larger than theirs, but they had had surprise on their side. This was why the scout hadn't come back.

Any time the lycan started to move, started to recover from his chest wound, she reinflicted it, stabbing him again. She didn't like this healing factor. Over the course of the trip back to the castle, she found different ways to add to his pain, slicing and breaking. But she held back. She didn't want him to die.

Selene trudged through the snow, up and down each slope, following the tracks from which they'd come. Her good arm strained under the pressure, and she hadn't been able to make her hands stop shaking since she'd beat the other lycan's brains all over her. Sometimes she could feel the cold sting of wetness on her face, but she willed it away. Again, there was no room for grief. There was only rage.

She was worried about sunrise. But not that worried. Did it honestly matter if she died now? She thought maybe it didn't, but she pressed her legs to go faster, refused to be engulfed in sunlight, in flame, before she wrought every last ounce of pain on this lycan. Until she found out who András was.

She got back to the castle with minutes left, maybe, before the sun crested gently over the horizen. She slammed her body through the courtyard double doors, the loud creaking resonating in the dark entrance hall. It wasn't the barracks but she hadn't had time. She also wasn't lucky, there were still some sickly-thin debutantes awake. They gawked at her, their big eyes wide, their sultry mouths falling open, as she hauled the dead lycan in behind her. She ignored them. She tried not to think about what she looked like to them, what they would say later to the others, maybe even to Viktor.

She hurried but she couldn't go fast with the weight of the huge man behind her. And she was tired. But she finally made her way through the halls, past staring faces, down to the dungeon. That's where they kept traitors. She locked him in a cell, and watched him for a long time.

She watched him, his twitching movements, his shallow breathing, until she caught the scent of another. She closed her eyes.

"It's good you left one alive." The tone was calm and measured. Selene put a hand up to hide her face. She didn't want him to see.

"Are you the only one?" He asked.

"Yes," she said. Her voice sounded strange, garbled. Viktor put a hand on her shoulder. It felt firm and steadying.

"I'll show you how to get what you want. We'll have our revenge."


	6. Sharp, Blunt, Cold, Hot, Loud

**Author's Note:** Revenge of the Lycans upset my story a bit, but I'm adapting. For instance, no one's seen Sonja except the Elders and Tanis. It works for Tanis, but Selene can't be staying in her bedroom due to the destruction of that castle. However, we'll suspend this for now, it's a nice touch I'd like to keep, and I'll make revisions in the future to make it all fit!

The first time he'd seen her, there was something about the way she'd turned away from him. Coming down the south terminal, he hadn't expected her to be leaning there like a forgotten umbrella against a train station pillar. When their eyes had met, he'd stopped. She was beautiful. Beautiful like a dark, cloudy day. Beautiful like the undisturbed snow he often saw in the early dawn on his way to work. But then she'd backed away, slowly edging around the column, receding from him like a dark wave pulled back to sea.

It was strange. When he was a kid, they'd look at pictures in class and pick out the object that didn't fit. It was a stupid exercise. But seeing her there, it was like that. She was a Monet in a Modern museum. A nail in a crayon box. Seeing her standing there, he knew she didn't belong in the background of the train station but he didn't know why. She'd slipped away into the shadows, into the dark before he could think about it any more, before he could put the puzzle pieces together and realize that something so beautiful should not exist at all, at least not in his world on his way home from work. A lion in the jungle. A boat in a parking lot.

Those eyes had stayed with him though as he made his way down the platform. Who knows, maybe he would have forgotten about her completely if the day had just continued like every other. Work, train, home, sleep, work. Maybe he would have dreamed about her months from that moment and wondered, again, who she was, what she'd been doing. Ask the question that had been only partly formed at the time, never completed, what was she doing there?

As he laid on his oddly stiff bed in London, he entertained the fantasy of her having approached him on the train, saying nothing but smiling. He liked to imagine her smiling. He changed her outfit, too, because this normal, human Selene would not wear leather bodices. This Selene would have stood with him for the ride, both looking at each other then looking away, lopsided smiles on their faces.

Michael closed his eyes.

"This is my stop," she would've said.

"Me too," he'd lie, and they'd get off together.

They'd walk maybe half a block, him enjoying the subtle curve of her lower back, the way her fingers hung loosely, relaxed. After he couldn't bear it any longer, he would have finally stopped and said, "Maybe a drink some time?"

A drink. Like a girl like this would ever just let him buy her a drink. But, to his surprise, she'd nod. They'd exchange numbers without speaking. She'd turn and, as she walked away, give one last faint, parting smile.

Michael sighed back in real time, back in London. His dream would never happen. The first time he'd seen her it had been as if she'd recoiled from the light, from him. Then, they'd been of two separate worlds. By slighting him, by pulling away, she'd wanted him to know that he was _not _a part of hers. She didn't fit with him, he didn't fit with her. But he didn't know any of that in the subway station, at least not fully, not until a few minutes later when he'd be staring down the approaching barrels of her automatic guns.

* * *

New words. New meanings. One of Selene's new favorite words was 'rewind.'

The moving picture had been so strange to her when she'd first seen it. A lot like the first time she'd seen a mirror. Unlike a reflection in water, a mirror captured every detail sharply, hid nothing. She could move her head, inspect hidden places. Perspectives were only limited by her creativity. Not like videos. Watching movies always seemed like jumping into another person's reality, a place where she could not look around, a place that would not yield to her questions. She had found them highly disconcerting and avoided them for years. She didn't like to feel so limited.

But videos. They allowed her to go backwards and forwards with the click of a button, a reality fully under the control and whim of her fingertips. Pause. She could see her face, eyes trained steadily over of the black metal gun, Michael's look of frozen terror. His shoulders reeling back from the bright blast of the first round. Their black and white images loomed there, recalled like specters from a bad dream. They waited for her decision, the machinery buzzing eagerly like a dog anxious for a ball to be thrown. She could send their tiny, digitized clones spiraling back into motion by pressing play, or she could 'rewind,' their limbs swinging retroactively back, all their actions undone by the mere fall of a finger.

She liked the idea of videos because they gave the illusion that things could be restarted, actions unperformed, but underneath the trick, the spoke the truth, poignant and sad: _nothing_ could truly be undone. Sadly videos were like a piano that could only ever play one song, front to back, stopped and started. The notes had always already been written. Everything that comes later on a video has already been predetermined by what had come before. Like life, like her memory. One long story to watch over and over.

The night she'd been turned, her recall had sharpened as effectively as her fangs, a perfect and untarnishable weapon. Just as easily as she could press a button, she could close her eyes and go to any day at any time and find faces, smells, and details exactly as they had been. She could relive everything as she'd experienced it, as clearly and painfully as if it all still existed. Videos do not get color wrong, videos do not forget words. It was something she hadn't recognized until she realized that this had not existed before. All she had from her time as a human, six hundred years after, were feeble and unrecognizable images, the last scraps of a long decayed carcass. A rotted film strip. She couldn't remember the faces of her family or the utensils in their house. She couldn't remember days or weeks or years passing. She wondered if she'd had the memory she had now if she might've figure out long before that Viktor, not the Lycans, had murdered her family. A surveillance tape of that night would have certainly been helpful.

She sighed and rewound to before she'd begun shooting at the Lycans, to the first time they'd come to the interrogation room. Stop. Play.

"-hy do you hate them so much?"

"I already told you, we're at war." Such a deep voice. Cold. Strange, that accent.

"So you're just following orders?"

Pause. She looked at Michael's face because, of course, at the time she'd been looking out the window, nonchalant and detached. She'd thought he was such an infuriating waste of energy at the time. But now she wanted to see his face, know what he was thinking. But he only looked tired and expectant.

Fast forward. She knew what she'd say next and didn't want to hear it again.

Stop. Play.

"—came over here to move on. To forget. Seemed like a good idea at the time." Michael's words echoed up at her, a pale imitation of her memory of the conversation. For all their marvels, videos were still so insubstantial.

"And have you? Moved on?"

"Have you?"

She still wished, as she did at the time, that he'd answered her question. As the video continued, she stopped paying attention and thought about what she'd been feeling at the time. She had felt the tiniest pang of hope, a pin drop on the side of a giant steel ribcage. This human had felt loss and despair that was so deep that it, too, had driven him to a cold and rainy terrain, far from what he loved. But her next thought had been dismissive. No human of 25 or 26 years could truly understand grief.

"—anna go with you."

Her finger shot out unconsciously, before her reverie had even stopped. Pause. She looked at the screen, wondering what had caught her attention. Yes, there it was. She leaned close over the monitor hands spread over the console, splayed across the steel metal like pale roots.

They weren't touching. Neither had put an arm out, neither had so much as fully inclined into the other, but for a few moments their lips had touched. She sat down and rolled the chair up to the edge of the screen, her chest against the rim of the desk. She stared down unblinking. She'd meant it as a trick. She'd actually thought she'd kill him after tasting his lips, bite deep into his throat, just to be rid of the burden, but something different had happened. Or maybe that's how she'd justified what she was doing at the time. Kissing a stranger. A human. A lycan.

What she'd done instead was chain him there. She didn't want to lose him. The pin drop had magnified in that instant, louder than a hammer strike, and she'd made a decision without knowing why. She wanted to save him as he had saved her from that drowning car. She wanted to protect him. She wanted to nurture the tiny flame of hope that had sparked in the desolate snowstorm of her inner landscape.

She examined the image now because she wanted to know why. Why Michael? Why then? Not just at the time of Kraven's ultimate betrayal, but why at a time when she'd decided there was nothing left to truly live for, nothing left to love? She wanted to find fault so badly. She wanted to condemn it, to go back to the monotony of murdering. She wanted to again exist on a compass of only one direction, a compass whose sole destination was death. She did not want to feel for him. She did not want to feel for herself, even more now that her one beacon of guidance had so completely abandoned her. Killing had been her only reason to live, but she could not die because now she wanted to live for him. Life never seemed to go her way.

She flicked off the monitor. She would not find the answer in the anatomy of that image. She would never know why, no matter how many videos, no matter how many different perspectives.

* * *

"Bring me my knives."

The vampire left quickly, either eager to please Viktor or to be out of his direct presence. Viktor seemed to always inspire overwhelming obedience and fear in his servants, each in different measures. Selene could never tell.

It had been a fortnight. A week. Seven days. It was in the same place they had left it, curled up like a dog in the corner of the cell. Her hands still shook when she looked at it.

"It gladdens me to see you back in your quarters at the castle," Viktor said conversationally, breaking the thick silence in the dungeon. She could feel him turning his eyes on her, burrowing unflinchingly into her concentration, but she didn't meet them. She had an idea where he was going with. "But why do you avoid the barracks?"

She couldn't answer.

"You must resume command. There is a new squad waiting to be trained. You will return to your rightful quarters."

She hadn't been able to bear the thought sleeping in the empty barracks, her comrades things scattered about, as if they had only just stepped out into the courtyard to train.

She still didn't meet his gaze. "Me, my lord? Command?"

She could feel his eyes narrow and sweep across her face searchingly. "Yes, my child. That is the chain. We recruit every day, and the eldest must teach the new, just as I teach you now."

Eldest. She had been nothing next to Devereaux. An infant, a child, just as Viktor now referred to her. Devereaux had killed dozens of lycans on dozens of missions. Her first mission had been a failure on all fronts.

"There is no one else?"

Viktor appraised her inscrutably. "You don't want this opportunity?"

Her lips parted, as if to answer, but she found there was nothing to say. She didn't know if she wanted it. What was there to go back to?

"After all those years you fought so viciously, so admirably for your dominion, you want to give up? To go back and read books or, worse, laze about in the castle?"

"That's not it, my lord, it's just—"

"It's not an option."

"I don't want to quit!" she said loudly. "I _want_ vengeance," her eyes bristling a bright shade of blue, tears welling where she could not stop them.

He took a step closer to her, moving his hand out and under her chin before she could pull away lifting her face and eyes to his. Here, she could not escape those eyes. They were too surgical and precise.

"I see _great_ things in you, Selene. But I also see _such_ weakness. There is no room for emotion here. Not now, not ever. This is a war, and there is no going back."

She swallowed, taking in his words. She felt ashamed that she had ever revealed her grief, her despair. She wanted to be like Viktor, all conviction and certainty, no taint of sentiment.

"We are elite," he said simply, a matter of fact. "We are death. There is only what must be done."

He pulled his hand away, a gift rescinded as quickly as it had come, and turned back to the lycan.

"And what must be done here is to find anything within this foul creature that can be refashioned, that we can use. Somewhere in that barbaric mind is information, and we will find it."

The sound of footsteps preceded the arrival of the servant and Viktor's knives.

"My lord," the lackey said, bowing low. He lifted a red velvet bundle high above his head.

"Put it on the table," he said, ignoring the embarrassing display of submission.

Viktor's hand swept out from under his robes, a grimy black key tightly wound in his fingers. He unlocked the cell, and without turning to Selene said, "Go prepare your barracks for the new arrivals. There will be no further delay."

Selene moved up the stairs, watching Viktor's finger tips play over a shining set of silver instruments, his eyes never leaving the broken body of the lycan, until the stone obscured him from view. She wanted more than anything to impress Viktor, to be what he wanted, but try as she might, she could not quell her grief.

* * *

She stood in the open doorway looking about the room. It was just one long chamber, a little over a dozen beds, not one distinguishable from the next. But when she looked harder, it was the little things that stood out, that bubbled to the surface like trapped air under water. An untied boot cast sideways under the bed. A book left open. A forgotten leather glove. These things had sat there untouched and unchanged since their last departure.

"What do you want me to do with this stuff?"

The servant Viktor had sent to help her began picking up these errant items, the last evidence that any of her fellow warriors had ever existed, and looking at them as if they were useless antiques.

Her first impulse was to tell him to save the books, the journals, because what would be left to remember them by? How would anyone know what had been there before? But a voice in her head, Viktor's, stopped her. These things were useless items of nostalgia, it said, and this was war.

"Burn them. Recycle anything you can if it can be used for new recruits."

She looked down, her toes only just inches over the threshold of the barracks.

"I'll be in Devereaux's quarters," she said, turning to leave.

"But you can't, my lady."

"Why?" she answered dismissively.

"Lord Kraven has already laid claim to those chambers."

She stared at him. "When?"

"Yesterday."

"And Devereaux's things?"

"Burned, just as you ordered these here."

"By Kraven?" she snapped, stepping forward.

"By Lord Viktor."

She sneered and stormed out of the barracks. Viktor or not, she knew Kraven was behind it. Her boots crunching deep in the snow as she charged across the castle courtyard. Slamming open the doors, she picked her pace up to a jog, swung around the corner, and stopped dead. Kraven stood down the passage, hunched over a door he had just closed. She heard the jingle of the key, but the picture was just too wrong to understand. His head lilted up, his long robe cutting across the stone floor as he turned to look at her.

She stood still as stone, carefully guarding her face as he approached, that sickening leer forming at the corners of his mouth. "I was sorry to hear of the tragedy at the cave. My informants were either deceived or incompetent. Either way, they have both paid for it with their lives."

She clenched her jaw, wondering whether the source of the incompetency was truly on the part of his scouts. He waited expectantly, as if he thought she might thank him, but she couldn't bring herself to say the words. His eyes glistened a faint blue as he continued.

"But how fortunate for you to have escaped with your life, with a prison in tow even. I expect after all this bloodshed and loss, you'll be returning to your quarters permanently in the castle?"

"No."

"No?" he said, as if he'd never heard the word before. "Surely, you must recognize by now that a woman of your stature, of your _beauty_ should not be so overexposed to such horrors. What if you had died?"

"Then I would've in battle, with honor, just like…" 'my friends' she wanted to say. But she thought he would laugh.

He turned his head, but she could still see him roll his eyes. "Just like a warrior, yes, yes." She could see those wheels turning, his mind scheming to gain higher ground.

"But every warrior retires. Look at me, I enjoy all the finer parts of life now, seldom see the battlefield." He stopped her, the intensity of his stare unsettling her, "You could, too, now. You've proven yourself. Leave a hero before it's too—"

"I will not stop, Kraven. Not until every lycan is dead."

He studied her incredulously, the tiniest bit of derision hidden in his eyes. "Viktor's follower through and through."

"That's right."

"But you really mean until you find the one who killed your family."

She said nothing, her face and shoulders tightening.

"Well, let us hope you are just as skillful," he said, though she felt he wanted to use 'lucky', "every time." He started past her, too close for her comfort. Stopping, he added as an afterthought. "And you have my condolences. If there's anything I can do," he said, reaching out a hand to touch her cheek.

She jerked back before she could check the response. Anger flashed across his face but was quickly replaced a condescendingly reassuring smile. "If you need company, I'll always be here." He motioned his head back in the directions of what had once been Devereaux's chambers.

"You're staying in Devereaux's chambers now?"

"Viktor agreed they were too plush for a lieutenant, anyway. He thinks maybe Devereaux's ego got to his head. A soldier should live simply, don't you think?"

She ground her teeth, the sharp edges scraping against each other.

"More suitable for a general. We don't want our recruits getting the wrong idea about what we do here." He inclined his head forward and walked away.

There were so many things she wanted to say, so much venom she wanted to sink deep into his veins. But she could say nothing. Kraven ranked so high above her, and she worried deep down that he had set up that mission in order to kill her. And while he might have failed there, he'd succeeded in killing everyone she'd known, including her love. All to protect his pride. He wanted to claim more than Devereaux's room and she knew it.

She glared at his retreating form, hating every lazy step in that overconfident stride, anger smoldering and crackling within her like dry wood on an open fire. She turned quickly on her heel and navigated the maze of corridors, ever winding down. The stench of old blood and rotting flesh became stronger at every descending step as Selene's frustrated hatred redirected seamlessly to the lycans, to the new task at hand.

* * *

She kept that first lycan alive longer than the many she captured after it. She wasn't sure why, she got what she wanted long before she let it die. At first, Viktor was at her side every night for months, above all, teaching her patience. Anything would crack under the appropriate pressure, he taught. Sharp, blunt, hot, cold, loud. There were many ways to torture, so many, in fact, that she'd spend years studying.

"It's an art," he'd say. "Each of these monsters is a different puzzle, a tangled mess of string. It's our job to unravel them, whether it's cutting, beating, yelling, or freezing."

Sharp, blunt, hot, cold, loud.

He taught her to prolong the approach of madness, to keep the lycan alive but just barely so, to take everything: mind, body, and soul. And she did. There was nothing left when she'd let it die. She let it starve to death.

She learned much from her first victim. The lycan was her teaching instrument, her first book to read and decipher. She listened to the random, insane prattling night and day. She learned its threshold for pain, its deep-seated unyielding fears. This one feared whips. She learned all the intimate secrets that can only be wrenched away, never voluntarily surrendered. She learned of all its' emabrassments, all its suffering. She learned the lycan she'd left for dead in the cave was his brother. He called his name often. She began bringing him companions, telling him they were his brother. She'd watch the hope light up on his face only to see it extinguished again when he realized that the new lycan wasn't him. She liked to kill the new lycans in front of him, leave them rotting in his cell. She didn't sleep.

But she didn't care about any of it. Not really, at least. He was nothing to her. Dirt on her instruments, muck on her boots. She cared most that it not die, learned when to wait and when to continue so that the pain would never stop, not for one moment. She wanted to take away every happiness, every joy. She wanted it to forget warmth and smiling and softness. She wanted it to be like her.

It took her a year to kill it, learning from it and playing with it, but what she wanted was something he could never truly give her. Above wanting it to feel her pain, she wanted it to be the lycan that had killed her family, she wanted him to be the lycan that had killed Devereaux. But he never would be. Its unending, unrelenting pain and suffering was almost enough, but never quite.

She did get something else, however, something unexpected. It was the only information it had told her of any real consequence and she planned to use it. András.

The name came up immediately in one of their first of several interrogations, but then took she and Viktor considerably longer to produce it again. András was the leader, the one who had figured out the vampires ploy and massacred them. He'd left the battle like a coward, of course, so this meant he was still alive. This gave Selene a direction, a new mission. While she might never find the murderer of her family and bring justice she so longingly craved, she could find this András.


End file.
